Chasing Demons
by Lythdan
Summary: Franziska has never known her mother, or why it is that she sees spirits in her room when she tries to sleep at night. Every story has its beginning. This one starts when Manfred von Karma met Morgan Fey in a quirky little village by the name of Kurain.
1. Ghosts

**A/N: This story is currently being written for the Kink Meme. While posting here, I'll try and iron out a few details that I missed when first uploading this story. If you're interested in knowing what the original prompt was, I've posted it on my profile. Anyway, that's enough explaination from me; I'll let the fic do the talking from here on out instead. **

**C****hasing Demons**

**Chapter One: Ghosts**

It was a cliché, but young Franziska von Karma saw dead people. Well, to be _truly_ accurate, she didn't see them, but rather experienced their presence in the room when she was trying to sleep at night. Even when she was very tired from poring over the heavy law books all day long, soft ghostly fingertips lay gently on her shoulder once she retired to her bed, and the room smelled faintly of a mother that she could barely remember.

Miles had started to notice the large dark bags underneath his sister's eyes when she woke up in the morning, but apart from a few questioning looks, he had not acknowledged them. He probably realised that she didn't want to talk about what was keeping her up so late at night. Luckily, Papa had been busy lately, going over to the States more and more often to take on important trials, and had not been around to observe the evidence of his daughter's less-than-perfect sleeping habits.

She knew, however, that Miles would not stay silent forever. They went into the library together after breakfast, and sat at their favourite tables. Miles was in the corner next to Papa's dusty books on legal loopholes, a section he seemed to favour perusing when he had free time after completing his main studies for the day.

Franziska, however, took the seat by the window. She loved the summer's warmth and its long days, where she could go outside after she had finished all her tasks and still enjoy reading a book, surrounded by the sunlight.

But this window also allowed her to enjoy the benefits of summer while in the library and she smiled to herself as a beam of sunshine crossed her desk. She closed her eyes and could almost feel the light being _absorbed_ into her eyelids…

The next thing she knew, Miles was shaking her awake. "Franziska," he said, "you dozed off."

She blinked at him, eyes still bleary from her nap. "It's the heat. Thank you for waking me up." She pulled the book she was taking notes from closer to her body, but Miles slammed his hand down atop of it. She twisted her head around his arm, but no matter what angle she surveyed the text from, it was simply too difficult to read with her brother's hand obstructing it.

"What would your father say if he saw you falling asleep during your studies?" It was not an accusation, like it would have been if it was indeed her father who had seen her lapse in concentration, but a genuine, concerned question.

She almost had half a mind to tell him, but she had to be reasonable. Miles was fifteen and had no reason to believe in ghosts. He would laugh at her if she told him that some nights, her mother held her tightly in her arms, which frightened Franziska so thoroughly that it kept her awake until the next morning.

Of course Miles would laugh. Miles would laugh, and tug gently on the end of one of her plaits, and tell her, 'Your mother's dead, Franziska,' while she scowled at him and fixed her hair ribbons to attain their perfect symmetry once more.

And if she were to tell him about the ghosts that visited her on other nights…well, he would be quite right to believe her crazy. Von Karmas came from only the best stock; mental abnormalities would not be tolerated in her father's household.

"I just haven't been sleeping well," she replied. "Then again, neither have you." It was true that Miles often looked as awful as Franziska did these days, but he was well trained enough not to fall asleep in the middle of his studies, and unbidden, a spark of jealously flickered in Franziska's heart. Why did _he_ have to be so good at everything? She was a von Karma, and she was meant to be perfect…but sometimes she felt as though she had difficulty being as perfect as Miles.

Not that she'd ever tell him that, though. There was no time or need to go around flattering her little brother's ego.

Miles froze, fingers tightening where they lay over the material of his pants. "That's none of your business, Franziska."

"I want to help you," she insisted. After all, Papa was coming back soon, and if he returned and saw the two of them struggling to stay awake while they ploughed through legal texts, he would be most displeased. If they were anything less than what he expected them to be, he might even decide that they were not worthy of the Von Karma name! Admittedly, it would not be quite as bad for Miles, as he was an Edgeworth…but if she was not a Von Karma, who _would_ she be? Clearly, they both needed help in solving their respective problems, but Franziska still wasn't going to tell first. "If you tell me, I'll tell you what's been happening to me."

At that, Miles seemed to think for a bit, until he leaned forward towards Franziska, the side of his mouth curling into a small smile and his eyes darting sideways. "Well, if you put it that way…I often spend many hours of the night reading everything I did not get around to studying during the day."

Huh. Maybe Miles wasn't as perfect as she thought he was. But there was something about the way he had said it so calmly, and the answer itself was so simple there would have been no real point in the first place. She bit her lip and looked at her brother, who seemed to be avoiding her eyes. He was lying to her!

"So, Franziska," he asked after the silent moment between them had endured for long enough, "what has been keeping you up so late that you cannot focus on your studies, hmm?"

She was angry at him, for lying so blatantly to her that she almost wanted to kick the fool as hard as she could and storm out of the room, but instead, the words tumbled out of her mouth as though her control of it had disappeared entirely. "I see ghosts!"

Why could she not keep her mouth shut? Papa had often told her off about talking at the wrong times, and she had been learning to be better disciplined lately, but when she let her emotions get the better of her as she had just now, all her hard work just seemed to vanish.

Miles had not been looking directly at her when he had asked his question, but now her eyes were locked onto her face. "You've been having bad dreams?" he asked, and his voice sounded oddly choked—a strange display of emotion for her brother.

It would have been easy to admit them as dreams, as demons haunting her mind, but after letting her secret be blurted out so foolishly, she remained obstinate. "They're not dreams, Miles Edgeworth, they're real."

"I know they can seem that way, when it's really dark at night, but they'll go away when you wake up and everything will be normal."

They wouldn't go away when she woke up, because she never went to sleep in the first place. If everything was meant to be normal when she was awake, did that mean that these…ghosts…were normal too? He was a foolishly foolish fool for foolishly thinking that she would have foolish dreams about foolish ghosts.

"Franziska."

She had been staring out the window with her arms crossed; refusing to listen to anything Miles had to say for the last five minutes. That had to be the fifth time he had called out her name.

"Franziska, bad dreams are nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes when you're afraid of things, you try to be strong and pretend they don't exist so they don't interfere with your everyday life. You can't truly forget them, though. Your mind remembers them when you fall asleep, and these fears of yours manifest themselves into nightmares because the only time they can frighten you now is when you're sleeping."

The words sounded nice to Franziska, but she still couldn't be too sure that he wasn't just being kind to her to make up for lying earlier.

Even if these ghosts were bad dreams that _somehow_ invaded her waking hours too, she wouldn't have any reason to be afraid of her own mother, would she? Some of the other ghosts were scary, like the man with the blood splatters covering his chest; white dress shirt stained a deep dark red, but her very own mother was meant to keep her safe. Which, in a way, the ghost did, even though it was still very scary.

"How do you know so much?" she asked, slowly turning around to see the fond expression on his face.

"That depends…can you keep a secret?" he asked.

She nodded slowly. Miles didn't talk about himself often, and she was not about to bypass an opportunity to learn one of his secrets. She wouldn't tell, because Papa wasn't here to tell anyway.

"It's…it's not the books that keep me up all night," he breathed, suddenly looking very interested in the designs carved into the edge of the table, fingers of the hand that had once been forcefully placed onto the book now tracing the intricate stem of a flower.

She thought she understood, but she wasn't entirely sure.

When she went to sleep that night, the now familiar fingertips gripped her shoulder, and a ghostly arm wrapped itself around her back. But this night, she reminded herself that there was no reason to be afraid. She breathed her mother's scent but it did not last too long. It wafted away and the fingertips left too, until she was cold and alone in her own bed.

Alone, that was, until at the end of her bed a man stepped out of the shadows behind her bedroom curtains, his suit jacket hanging undone displaying the prominent blood splatter covering nearly his entire chest.

_I am not scared_, she told herself, hoping that this ghost would go away, just like the one of her mother had.

The ghost didn't go anywhere and merely stood at the end of her bed, saying nothing. She wondered if the ghosts could speak. Crawling out from underneath her own covers, she forced herself to inch herself towards the ghostly man.

"Who….who are you?" she asked. If this man and her mother were both ghosts, surely she could deal with them _both_ with the method that Miles had taught her?

The man smiled a happy smile as a bullet flew backwards out of his heart.

Franziska screamed.


	2. Farewell

**Chasing Demons**

Weeks passed. Franziska was not getting any more sleep than she used to, but now when the bleeding man appeared at the end of her bed in the middle of the night, she knew how to stifle the screams. She had not told Miles about it; after all, she was old enough and more than mature enough to handle this by herself.

* * *

Sunday was the only day of the week when Miles and Franziska were expected to take a break from their usual studying. After all, Sunday was the day of rest. Sometimes on the walk home from the church, Franziska wondered if her father really believed in religion or if it was just to maintain their image as the perfect family.

Papa was not home that day, in fact he had flown back to the States early that morning so he could investigate and prosecute yet another perfect trial. It was a warm afternoon by the time the mass was finished and Franziska almost skipped out of the church with Miles trailing behind her, hair slipping out of the perfect braid Miles had made her that morning.

Miles's legs were longer and he caught up to her eventually, even though he sounded slightly out of breath. "Franziska, what would your father say if he saw you running around the streets with your hair flapping around your face like some sort of common street child?"

"He wouldn't say anything because he's not here to see anything. He's not coming back for weeks, maybe even months!" Last night had been a worse night than most. Franziska had needed to cover her mouth with her pillow, because if she screamed, it would surely wake Papa up and then he would know about her foolish nightmares.

"You know what it means when he does come back, don't you, Franziska?"

Every time she thought about what it meant, her stomach made a strange sort of flip, and something inside her ached. She had no idea how to explain the foreign feeling.

Last night, just before dinner, her father had summoned her to his office. She had wondered if she had done anything to anger him this time, but had not been able think of anything.

The door had been slightly ajar, but she'd knocked anyway, because she knew her father hated to be disturbed. She'd heard the rustling of papers, and then Papa had said 'Come in' in that deep voice of his, and tentatively, she entered, not knowing what to expect.

He'd stood up when she approached his desk, back straight and tall. "You have grown again, Franziska," he had told her, and she had not known if she were meant to reply in the usual manner. But in this instance, it seemed that he had not been expecting any response. "You look a lot like I did when I was your age…nothing like your mother."

She refused to believe her father had meant to hurt her with those words. Some days she spent longer than necessary preparing herself in the mornings as she stared in the mirror, hoping that one of her facial features (the shade of her eyes, the curve of her nose?) would remind her of long gone mother's. Now she knew why it never happened. Her father had told her that they looked nothing alike. The words were not meant to feel as though they were cutting her up from inside. He was simply telling the truth.

Not that she could not know for sure, though. There were no photos.

Then her father had dropped the bombshell: that the next time her father came home, it would be to take Miles back to America.

Last night she had dreamt of her mother for the first time in a while, the scent hovering around her in the room familiar, and when her mother touched her shoulders, they were no longer gestures of frightening comfort, but tightening fingers determined to snatch her away from Miles, Papa, Germany…everything she had ever known.

Miles was still standing next to her, awaiting the answer to the question he must have poised a few minutes ago now. "I still don't know how to braid my own hair, Miles Edgeworth," she pointed out. Surely if she did not know how to do that, Miles wouldn't be able to leave.

"It's not as hard as you think it is, Franziska," he assured her, firm hands grasping her hair where it was coming loose, undoing the hair ribbon and redoing the braid. "You can do the two plaits, right? Well, it's sort of like that. If not, you can just wear the plaits all the time, you know. In fact, I'm sure if you were to ask one of the servants, they would be happy to do your hair for you." He frowned, as if he knew that a perfect hairstyle was not all that Franziska was worried about. "Or, you could just say that you will miss me."

_Hah_. Of all the foolishly foolish things for a foolishly foolish fool to foolishly admit to, dependency on another person had to be one of the most foolish. She was Franziska von Karma, and she did not need her little brother around to take care of her. After all, she was well more advanced than he was in his studies, even though he studied so hard, and she was well on track to becoming a perfect prosecutor, just like Papa. All in all, she was a daughter to be proud of.

She _would_ miss him. That would be the best way to describe it. He really was just like a brother to her. An older brother to hold her hand and assuage her fears when she needed it most and a younger brother to boss around and to teach the ropes of the legal system to, at least, until his learning had caught up with hers. She would miss him, but she would never, ever tell him so.

They walked back to the von Karma mansion together in silence: Miles not wanting to push the point any further, and Franziska adamant not to tell him how she really felt. Her mother, Miles…would everyone she loved end up leaving her too?

* * *

The summer soon turned into autumn; red, brown and yellow leaves fell all over the grounds of the von Karma mansion. Miles was standing outside the ornate double doors, back tall and proud, the very same stance that reminded Franziska of Papa.

It was Papa's return that Miles was awaiting. Franziska was to stay inside until the time she was called upon, studying in the library. But instead, she watched Miles through the window and observed his perfect patience. When he turned around, even though it was barely a fraction, the golden sunlight of the late autumn afternoon shone through his hair, and usually in this light, Miles would look beautiful.

Today, to the untrained eye, Miles looked determined.

To Franziska, he looked afraid.

She knew that a perfect daughter would stay where she was told and not even think about leaving the house to run outside when her father might come home at any moment. Sometimes, though, Franziska had trouble remembering to be perfect all the time, and without even thinking about it, her hands slipped off the window frame and she ran out of the hallway and into the cool autumn breeze.

Miles jumped as the door slammed, then whirled around to find the source of the noise. He looked down and Franziska looked into his eyes. She heard him swallow, then say, "Franziska. Go back inside."

She stood her ground. "You can't boss me around." With Miles gone, she would no longer have her brother. Who would she be then? Just the person she had always been brought up to be—Franziska von Karma, prodigal daughter of Manfred von Karma.

Miles lifted his head up, arms folded across his chest. "It's best if you're not here, Franziska. I've already said my farewells to you."

His words ignited something inside her, a sort of ravenous fire that threatened to burn her from the inside out if she didn't drop her perfectly practiced cool demeanour and just start screaming. "You _moron_!" she screamed, her hands balling into fists and clutching the front of his suit. "You call _that_ a farewell? It was nothing! You foolishly foolish fool who foolishly thinks you can foolishly get away with such a foolish farewell!" The insults were getting foolishly redundant, but she had difficulty stopping the words from slipping over her lips.

With a cry, she let go of Miles's jacket, almost bowling him over as she ran to the shade of a large oak tree, her hands slamming into its trunk. She punched it again and again and again, acorns in their branches rustled until the bark of the large oak scraped against her skin and she could almost feel splinters embedding themselves into her palms.

Her punches had all happened so fast, and in what seemed like barely a matter of moments, Miles's hands were covering her own, arms wrapped around her protectively. "Franziska," he groaned as he knelt down behind her, grip tightening, "what would your father say if he saw you'd hurt yourself so foolishly?"

Franziska was about to retort that she didn't care, that she would go to America with Miles, that it was completely _unfair_, no matter how much of a spoilt brat that made her sound.

She never got a chance. "What would you father say, indeed?" a familiar voice asked. It was not hers, it was not Miles's, it was…she swallowed and looked up, Miles's arms still wrapped around her in what could only be described as tight hug.

Her Papa stood in front of her, and he looked even more severe and punishing than ever. As Miles took a shaky breath and made to stand up, she grasped his hands even tighter. No matter what her father did or said to her, at least she'd gotten her proper farewell.

Miles did not end up leaving that afternoon. Franziska knew her father had planned only to visit home for an hour at most and that he had important business to attend to back in the States, but she had just given him a more important reason to stay home: the discipline of his daughter.

This time as she waited outside her father's office, she knew exactly what she had done to anger him. She hesitated before raising her hand to knock on the door. What would he say to her and, more importantly, would she say anything to him?

His voice invited her inside, but this time he did not stand up when she approached him. He had not been attending to any paperwork like he usually did when he was in his office; instead he had been sitting there, patiently waiting for Franziska, and she hoped he hadn't kept him waiting for too long. There was disappointment etched into the lines of his face and Franziska hated the overwhelming feeling of failure that enveloped her.

"You know that I am a very busy man," Manfred reminded her, knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of his desk. "I hope that you can provide me with an adequate reason as to why I am still here."

Franziska knew that her father hated wasting time and hated having to stay at home because he didn't trust his daughter to follow his instructions when he was not around to enforce them. For the first time in a while, words failed Franziska, as all she could think about was how Miles could stay for one more night. "I-I…"

"Franziska, I did not raise you to speak to me in incomplete sentences. If you are incapable of providing a reason, then I shall supply one. I cannot leave my daughter while she remains to be of inadequate temperament: hot-tempered and rash, unable to control her own feelings. These are traits unbecoming of a von Karma. I expected more of you, Franziska. Now you will tell me the reason for your foolish actions earlier."

Franziska bit her lip. She had already let Papa down so much, and he knew the truth would do little to please him. Then again, if she just apologised for what she had done and admitted she had behaved in a way that was inappropriate because she had been restless, Papa and Miles could still possibly leave tonight.

Then there was nothing to stop the truth from escaping her. "I want to go to America, Papa!" she declared, and even though she knew all along it would be entirely the wrong thing to say, a chill still went down her spine when her father's lips tightened. That was never a good sign; it often was an indicator that he was about to lose his temper, something that she knew happened more than he would admit to.

"America is a dangerous place, Franziska," he replied. "I raise you in Germany so you are safe from all the perils that could await you in the United States. Every day I deal with murderers, rapists, kidnappers, the _scum of the earth_; every day more homicides are committed, more woman are taken advantage of and more young children are abducted. Do you want these things to happen to you?"

Of course she didn't. But those things happened anywhere, even in Germany too. After all, what was the point of studying to become Germany's best prosecutor if there were no criminals to convict? "Please, Papa." She had never resorted to begging before, but she knew that her Papa would not like it. But even that knowledge did not prepare her for what happened next.

Papa's hand slammed into the side of her face, sending her sprawling backwards onto the floor. She let out a gasp of surprise, her own hands coming up to her cheek, skin tingling more with shock than with pain. Papa had just hit her. He had never even laid a hand on her before. Unbidden, tears sprang into her eyes, and even though they made her feel ashamed, she let them fall, the movement of her tears on her stinging cheek making for an odd sensation.

"You are just like your mother," he said, looming tall as he walked over to her and stood before her as she lay on the floor. "A resilient little _bitch_." She has never heard him talk about her mother before, and now he had, and the words had been so harsh.

Still crying, she picked herself up, doing her best to straighten out the crinkles in one of her favourite dresses. Papa did not look at her until she turned the handle on the office door to leave, as it was clear her father was not going to talk to her and dismiss her.

When he did look at her, however, she saw the look in his eyes, and even though the rest of his face was as calm and collected as always, she could tell that he was sorry.

She knew that under normal circumstances, she could expect her father to follow her if she left without his permission. These, however, were not normal circumstances, and Franziska found herself climbing the staircase that lead to Miles's room, knowing exactly how to evade the housemaids that would tell her she wouldn't be allowed.

The door was wide open, and she could see Miles standing by the window. It struck her as odd, as Miles didn't seem like the type to enjoy sunlight; he was always brooding in dark corners. Her footsteps were not light when she entered the room, and Miles heard them. Pressing his forehead against the window, his back turned to her, he said, "Go away, Franziska. I have nothing to say to you."

That didn't stop her from striding into her brother's room. She had not been in here in a long time, and the room was even more meticulously neat than usual, but that was to be expected, as Miles was meant to have left earlier that afternoon. His suitcase still lay closed on the covers of his bed, briefcase lying next to it.

He turned around then, nearly lost his balance and leant against the glass for support. With his other hand, he pointed at Franziska, then the door. "Franziska, I said—God, what did you do?" His hands cradled Franziska's face; she supposed he could still see the imprint of Papa's hand on her cheek.

She started crying again, although, she wasn't sure if she entirely stopped in the first place anyway. "I asked him if I could come too…I just wanted you to stay for one more night."

He stroked her hair, fingers undoing her braid. "I have to help your father, you understand." He swallowed, then continued. "He's done a lot for me; he took me in when no-one else was willing to. You have to be a good girl for him, Franziska, not cause him extra stress and worry."

"But I'll miss you." She had avoided telling him for the past month, but now that he was really and truly leaving, she knew he needed to know.

"You'll see me again someday," he assured her, and he held her tighter, giving her enough room to lay her head on his shoulder.

"If you stayed, I would see you every day."

He didn't say anything, and she knew that he was trying to prevent himself from making any promises he couldn't keep. She wondered if she would ever see him again, and vowed to herself that one day, she would go to America with Papa and Miles. She'd do anything to show her father that she was worthy enough, that she could defend herself against anyone who tried to make her do anything she didn't want to do.

Maybe she would learn how to use a whip.

After parting from the last hug she would receive in a long time, it was already late at night, past the time she usually went to bed. When she went to bed that night, she could already feel her mother standing in the room with her and the stinging slap on her cheek. For the first time, she heard her voice as well. "Resilient little _bitch_." It echoed through the emptiness of the room, and she just managed to stop herself from yelling out. After tonight, she reminded herself bitterly, she wouldn't have anyone to hide her screams from.

The words scare her more than anything any of the previous ghosts had ever done. Was it really true, what Papa had said about her mother? After eight years of never even bringing the topic up, why now? Would she ever know her who her mother was?

Did it really matter, in the end? She was Manfred von Karma's daughter, and surely that ought to be good enough for anybody. But she was not his perfect daughter, perfect daughters did not do what she had done today. Who was the other half, the other person who had created her so imperfectly _Franziska_?

She had never been happier for the bleeding man to appear in her room, because he always chased the ghost of her mother away. She'd almost grown used to his frightening appearance, and she was sure he did not mean to scare her.

In fact, some nights, she swore he was watching out for her.


	3. Fools and Hypocrites

**A/N: Thanks to those who have reviewed and favourited the story so far. It's great to know that you're enjoying it. Even to those who have just been reading, I hope you're enjoying the story too. :)**

* * *

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Three: Fools and Hypocrites**

She saw her brother no more than three times over the course of the next four years. When he did come, though, he and Papa stayed for more than a week; when Papa came alone it was usually only for the weekend.

She was twelve now, nearly thirteen, and the last time Papa had visited her, they had talked about how both she and Miles were almost ready to embark on their careers. She'd behaved impeccably in Miles's absence and now she was to be rewarded: she was going to America.

Tucking her hair behind her ears—she had cut it short, so it fell no farther than her chin—she did not shift from her spot underneath the large oak, the same oak she had cut her hands on the day before Miles had left. She smiled to herself; back then she had been a fool, but also a child.

She was no longer that same child who cried and ran up to people to hug them so they wouldn't be able to leave her. She was about to start her _career_, after all, and she knew that people would have enough trouble taking her seriously as it was, and if she behaved immaturely, they would laugh in her face, laugh at _her_, at least until she shattered their arguments with her innately perfect logic.

The sound of gravel crunching underneath tyres became louder, and a sleek black car pulled into the driveway, only a few metres away from where she stood. Her papa's car. The only times she had been in it before had been when her father had taken her to the courts so she could observe and learn more about courtroom proceedings first-hand.

The chauffer was the first to exit the car; he didn't look in Franziska's direction, instead he went to the other side of the car to open the door for Manfred von Karma. Her Papa got out of the car and smiled proudly when he saw her waiting patiently where he had told her to. "You have grown again, Franziska."

"I have indeed, Papa." She was no longer a little girl; everything she had worked towards for the past four years was finally paying off. She was going to America.

"Have you prepared everything, Franziska?"

Franziska nodded. "I have, Papa." He waited where he was while Franziska went inside to retrieve her suitcase. The chauffer popped open the trunk from the inside of the car, then came out again to load Franziska's suitcase into it.

They sat next to each other in the back seat of the car on the ride to the airport. They didn't talk much; they never talked much, really, although Papa did tell her that Miles was looking forward to seeing his little sister again. When he had said that, she had to stop herself from scowling. There was nothing _little_ about her anymore, and she'd show Miles that once she saw him again.

The car drove south towards the tall skyscrapers of Frankfurt. One day soon, she would be working there. She must have dozed off in the car, because the next thing she knew her father had his hand on her shoulder and she was opening her eyes blearily. Papa did not look angry that she had fallen asleep and for that, she was grateful. She had to be a good girl for Papa, after all, and do everything perfectly.

They were to fly first class to LAX on Germany's national air carrier, Lufthansa. She had never been on an airplane before. In fact, because she was often left home alone these days with no-one but the servants to supervise her, she had never gone any further than Frankfurt.

After a short stint with security where no-one could figure out just _why_ Papa was setting off the metal detector, which, Papa told her, happened every time he had to pass through aviation security, and they had learnt not to hassle him too much, they were sitting on the plane, awaiting their departure. Papa told her that he much preferred flying by private jet, but was in the habit of only using it when he had only short notice to organize a trip, and he had been planning this one for a while.

Franziska's heart sung at the praise, that he had thought she had preformed perfectly enough to deserve a trip to the United States, but instead of showing him how just excited she was, she just said, 'Thank you, Papa'.

The flight took ten hours. She fell asleep on the plane too as she was trying to ignore the flips of her stomach that worsened every time the plane hit the tiniest bit of turbulence—after all, what would Papa say if he discovered that she was susceptible to something as foolish as motion sickness? She would just let Papa think she was fatigued from working so hard over the past few months—she knew he would be more concerned than angry.

An unwelcoming jolt woke her up as she found herself bouncing up and down in her seat. "The plane's landed," Papa told her, even though the noise the cabin was generating and the rushing landscape by her window told her as much.

It did not take an unacceptably long time until they were out of customs. The International Arrivals area was very, very crowded. In fact, Franziska was unsure if she had ever seen so many people in one room in her entire life. Some people dressed in crisp suits waved signs in languages she couldn't understand and others shouted across the room to other people, running up them and embracing them in tight hugs. Displays of foolishness surrounded her, but in particular, one person stood out.

Standing slightly off to the side, hair grown longer so that it almost covered his eyes, wearing a crisp magenta suit and…was that a _cravat_? was her brother, Miles Edgeworth. No longer the scrawny brother she remembered whose long limbs were disproportionate to the rest of his body, but nineteen years old, a _man_.

"Franziska, Mr von Karma, sir." There was no hug just like there had been no hug the last three times she had seen him. This time, there was hardly a smile on his face. Miles had changed. Then again, she had too.

…

It was warm in Los Angeles, her sheets sticking to her skin whenever she tried to shift slightly in her bed. She had hoped that she would have been able to leave her demons behind in Germany, where they belonged, but they had followed her here, across the Atlantic. She had become better at controlling their appearances as she gained more control over the other aspects of her life, but here in an unfamiliar country in an unfamiliar bed, she did not retain the same control that she did back home.

When she was younger, multiple ghosts used to visit her, some had been shot and she could see the blood trailing over their chests, some had been hanged and had seen the noose tied around their necks, some had been poisoned, coming at her with decaying limbs. But for the majority of the past four years, they had dwindled down to her two most frequent visitors: the bespectacled man who had been shot in the heart, and her mother.

Her mother wasn't like the rest of them, however. With the others, she saw the apparitions appear in her room when she was trying to sleep, but her mother was a familiar scent, like a feeling she only had a long time ago. She still had no idea what her mother had looked like.

Of course, it was completely futile trying to sleep now, ghosts or not ghosts. Even though the gap between the window and her curtain where she had failed to close it properly showed the dark night's sky, it really was only eight in the morning in Germany.

Hoping her father had retired to his room, she crept out of hers, pushing up the straps of her nightdress where they were falling.

She had expected to be alone in the kitchen, hoping to get herself a glass of water, but that was when she saw Miles kneeling by the window, head leaned forward and arms crossed over his chest, still dressed in the same suit that he had picked them up from the airport in. She had to be quiet. She didn't want to startle him.

The next thing that happened, however, made her forget everything. He let out a choked sob, and those were _real_ tears falling down his cheeks. She did not remember to be quiet. "Miles Edgeworth?" she asked quietly, but the words seemed loud enough in the silent room.

The noises stopped immediately and Miles jumped to his feet. "Franziska, what are you doing here? Go back to bed. You have to be up early tomorrow; your father says I'm to take you on a tour of the city," he snorted, leaning back against the wall, but to Franziska he still looked as though he could faint any moment.

"That means you will have to awaken early too," she pointed out, and Miles laughed. She had never heard him laugh before, and she wasn't quite sure she actually liked it when he laughed.

"Don't worry about me, I ought to be used to it by now. You shouldn't be…unless…" An odd look crossed his face and she wondering if he was remembering a conversation they had together, four years ago.

Back then, Miles had been reluctant to tell her the truth. She had had her suspicions as to why, but now she _knew_ it. "You have nightmares too," she accused, and Miles looked so helpless and stricken within that one moment before his features readjusted so his face was as unreadable as it had been that entire day. He did not answer, and turned away from Franziska.

She poured her glass of water and went back to her room. She had no time for fools and hypocrites.


	4. Abduction

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Four: Abduction**

It was morning now, and she supposed she had fallen asleep eventually. Miles barely looked at her when she entered the room, but his voice greeted her with the words, 'your father's already gone to work'.

She couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. It would be foolish to wish that her father would spend more time with her just because she was on holiday, but she had anyway. Sometimes she wondered why she was even here. It was clear that Miles had no desire to spend any time with her.

After breakfast, she found herself in the car, sitting in the front passenger seat next to Miles as he gripped the steering wheel tightly and asked her where she wanted to go. The answer was, truthfully, nowhere, not with him. She would give anything to just go for a drive with Miles Edgeworth, her brother, but the Miles sitting next to her was no longer that same person.

"Look, Franziska, I'm a busy person. If you don't want to go anywhere, you can just stay inside all day. I have business that I need to attend to."

What could Miles possibly be so busy with? After all, he had not started his career as a prosecutor yet. These days, Miles was starting to remind her of Papa.

That decided it. Even though her father had told her that Miles had been looking forward to seeing her again, he clearly didn't want to spend time with her and saw her merely as a nuisance he had been entrusted to take care off.

She pushed the door open and kicked it away from her with her feet. "I don't want to go anywhere with _you_," she clarified, and Miles didn't say anything or try to stop her from going. For that, she was grateful.

Franziska spent the next few days holed up in the house, reading the books she had brought with her. At this rate, she would run out of books to read before the first week of her stay had finished. That morning, she sat on the couch, nearing the end of the text she was studying when the writing was covered in shadows. Turning around, she saw Miles standing behind her. It was his shadow that was falling over the pages of her book.

"Come on, Franziska, surely you must want to go somewhere, have some fun?" He grimaced.

"I don't wish to do any such thing," she replied, turning the page. She knew her father had been disappointed with Miles for not taking care of her. She had heard them talking in low, angry voices when she was supposed to be sleeping. Her Papa had asked Miles why she had travelled all this way, left the country she had been raised in for the first time, to only spend the entire time holed up in the house, doing what she did back at home? Miles had refused to answer, but had simply promised Papa he would try his best to convince Franziska to leave the house.

His best clearly was not good enough. "Franziska, please, just let me take you somewhere."

"You just don't get it, do you, Miles Edgeworth?" she hissed. "If I want to go anywhere, it certainly won't be with you." Before he had any time to react, she stood up from the chair, carefully kept note of the page she was up to in her book, and walked out the front door.

Her shoes slammed against the pavement angrily as she started to walk at a brisk pace. Miles had no right to tell her what she ought to be doing, and if she wanted to stay at the house all day, then she was going to do that. However, Miles wasn't going to leave the house without her, not after her father had told him off about it. That didn't stop _her_ from leaving the house.

He would make it to the door, she knew, and maybe make a few half-hearted attempts at calling her name, but only because Papa had asked him to.

The trees rustled when she passed them, a light breeze throwing her hair out of place and over her face and turning her cheeks pink, almost making it look as though she had been running. Then she imagined Miles's voice—her _brother's_ voice asking, "What would your father say?" He hadn't asked her that in a while now.

She hadn't walked too far when she came across a small city park; she hadn't had a chance to do much exercise lately, and as a result, was already rather tired. She decided she would sit down just for a little bit, until her feet stopped hurting in these new shoes she was unused to wearing.

The only bench, however, was already occupied by a tall brunette woman. Franziska almost reconsidered her decision to stop, but that was when the woman greeted her. "Hello."

For a short, fleeting moment, she wondered if she ought to be talking to strangers. Was there any _worth_ in talking to strangers, really? Most of the people she had met in her life were foolish fools, Papa and Miles being exceptions. Miles _did_ seem to be becoming more foolishly foolish as he grew older though.

Then the woman smiled at her, a kind smile, the sort that started at the curve of the lips and finished in the twinkle of the eye. She wasn't sure that she had ever seen anyone smile like that before. It almost seemed unnatural.

"You're Franziska, aren't you?"

In surprise, Franziska's hands curled into fists, palms suddenly sweaty inside her gloves. "How did _you_ know that?" she demanded. There was something unsettling about the woman; the way she held herself on the park bench, the width of her smile—the _defense attorney's_ badge on her lapel.

Franziska's eyes narrowed. Jabbing a finger towards the badge, she accused, "You're a defense attorney." The words left her mouth as though they were poison.

The woman frowned. "Please don't poke it like that. I just got it yesterday. …How did you know what it is, anyway?"

The answer to that was easy. "Because I am going to be the best prosecutor the world has ever seen!" she exclaimed confidently, jaw set, before pausing a second to add, "After my Papa, of course."

Naturally, Franziska assumed that the woman would ask her who her Papa was. She loved talking about her Papa at any opportunity that she received, but he had taught her when she was younger that it was discourteous to provide too much information on a subject she had not been questioned on.

"A prosecutor, huh…" The woman seemed to mull that over, long brown hair falling over her shoulders as she leaned forward, a finger drawing lines in the dust beneath her seat. "Franziska, tell me, do you believe that good people can sometimes do bad things?"

"I don't. That's why the defendant is always guilty." That was one of the most obvious things in the entire _world_.

There was a different smile on the woman's face now, lips twisted into unfamiliar shapes and her dark brown eyes almost appeared glazed over. "So you're saying, Franziska, if I do something bad, I'm a bad person?"

"Essentially, yes," she confirmed. "It only takes one crime to put someone away for life, and criminals are bad people."

"All the time?"

"All the time."

"Then, you'll just have to forgive me…" The woman turned away then, and even though it was against Franziska's better instinct, her own head turned to look in the same direction.

It was so fast when it happened. There was one hand covering her eyes and another covering her mouth and nose from behind. Her heart leapt, started hammering inside her ribcage and she could hear her blood rushing in her ears. She did the first thing she could think of, which was to bite down on the hand covering her mouth, but no matter how much her teeth scaped against the skin of the palm, it had little to no effect.

She tried twisting, but the grip she was in held firm. She tried kicking, but her boots always missed.

The smell, oh, the _smell_, it was making her dizzy. She was such a _fool_. Papa had warned her, hadn't he, about the type of people Americans were? The very reason why he had waited so long before he had allowed her to come and visit? If only he had not decided to wait until her thirteenth birthday to buy her a whip; her arms were free but they were definitely not long enough to injure her assailant.

Although she couldn't see, she could definitely feel the ground spinning under her feet, faster and faster. She could no longer feel the hands on her face, could no longer smell the strange scent that had originally brought about her condition, could no longer hear the blood pounding in her own ears.

She fell to the pavement and then there was nothing more.

…

Manfred von Karma was furious. How _dare_ Miles call him away from work without even stating the nature of the emergency? It did not take him long to reach the house, and Miles was already there, sitting on the front doorstep as though he was some sort of homeless street urchin.

"Get up," Manfred hissed, and Miles nearly jumped to his feet.

"Sorry, sir," he said as he straightened out the creases in his pants.

"Do _not_ waste my time with your useless apologies, Miles Edgeworth! What, pray tell, is important enough to pull me away from my work this early in the afternoon?"

"It's six o'clock in the evening, sir."

"Don't be impertinent with me, boy!" Manfred barked. "I hope for your sake that there _is_ a good reason."

"Franziska," Miles replied immediately, and Manfred wondered why he hadn't just said that immediately when he had come home, or even when he had talked to him on the phone earlier.

"What about her?" A small, uneasy feeling started to develop in his chest. There was something that seemed unusual about the situation; something he couldn't put his finger on just yet. "Where is Franziska, anyway?"

Miles's eyes darted to one side. Head dropping towards the floor, he mumbled something so incomprehensible Manfred didn't even want to fathom that it was meant to represent articulate speech.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he demanded, and Miles's head shot up. Manfred could clearly see Miles's Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"I don't know, sir."

The uneasy feeling grew until it became a sense of great foreboding. Not _know_? How could he not know? Miles was meant to be taking care of her; something he had obviously failed to do over the course of the past few days, but after their conversation the night before he thought that maybe Miles would start taking his responsibilities more seriously.

"How can you just _stand_ there and tell me you don't know where my daughter is? You were meant to be looking after her—America is a dangerous place!"

"I _know_ that sir, but she just walked out." Miles's eyes were darting all over the place again, too afraid to look straight at Manfred. Manfred did not bother to reprimand him about it this time.

Manfred could feel his temper rising inside him. He rarely lost his composure, especially not in front of other people, as the only time he did things he could regret was when he was angry. Over every single other aspect of his life, he had complete and utter control. Every detail laid out perfectly, for that was the von Karma family motto: To be perfect in every way. He was Manfred von Karma, and he _was_ perfect.

His fingers reached out until they were grasping tightly onto the front of Miles's suit and Miles's mask was starting to slip off. Manfred glimpsed fear in his eyes. "You just let my daughter walk out of the house?"

Miles leant backwards, the back of his head banging slightly into the wall. "She didn't want to be followed, sir."

"She's twelve. _Twelve_. Regardless of how mature she may think she is, or what her wishes may be, she should have never been allowed outside alone, under any circumstances. I thought I had made myself clear enough last night, but obviously, the concept was too difficult for you to grasp."

He let go of Miles then; his eyes were starting to bulge from their sockets and it would be an awful mess if he exploded here right in front of the house. Miles's father had been quite the mess enough.

Miles sagged against the wall, grateful for the release.

"There is no time to stand around dawdling here," Manfred proclaimed, dragging Miles up by the arm. "When did you see her last?"

"Eight o'clock this morning, sir," Miles replied, matching pace with Manfred as he fought to keep up with his brisk strides.

"And it took you _nine_ hours to notify me?" Their shoes kicked autumn leaves out of the way as they walked past a small park near the house.

"I thought if she was angry, sir, a walk alone might do her some good and she would come back in her own time. I understand you're a very busy person, I didn't want to disturb you."

Is that what Miles really thought? That he didn't have the _time_ to care for his daughter? The implication hurt more than he would care to admit to. Yes, Franziska was a flaw in his otherwise perfect life, but she was his _daughter_ and if anything had happened to her, Miles Edgeworth was going to _pay_.

Then his true fear started gnawing at him, he could feel its desire to escape him in the form of tangible words. The fear was so great that he had to sit down on the solitary bench in the entire park; someone had been drawing in the dust underneath the seat. "Did you ever consider, Miles Edgeworth," he started coldly, "that she might not come back? Not because she doesn't want to, but because she is incapable of doing so?"

"I did, sir, that's why I called you."

Manfred knew Franziska. Not as well as he wished he did, but well enough to know her fits of temper were very similar to his own; with her youth, it was a lot easier for her to loose her composure, but apart from that they were the same. The anger didn't last too long, but it sometimes caused events that could never be undone.

_Gun in his hand; finger on the trigger; aimed where he wants it_.

He wouldn't think of that. Not now. He had to think of Franziska. If he let himself think of the fool standing in front of him, he _would_ do something he would regret. He was certain of it.

"Get out of my sight," he said, and even to himself his voice sounded disgusted. Miles stood to his feet, then faltered.

"I'll do anything to help," Miles promised. "I could notify the police—"

The police. Manfred knew he had the power to make the city's entire police force look for his daughter, but he would _not_ get them involved with this. Franziska was not the type to wander off and not come back, in fact, she would have come straight home once she became bored. The real reason he had never wanted his daughter setting foot in America ever again…had it actually happened?

He could not remember feeling this sort of panic in the last ten years. Miles looked at him, then went, "All right, sir. I'll walk around this area and look for her. If she went somewhere by foot, she couldn't have gone too far, surely."

Manfred ignored him. Somehow he knew Franziska was not wandering the neighbourhood's streets, lost and confused. He knew where she was really would be; he _knew_ what transpired. He had hidden all the letters and threats he had received over the years, he had even stopped reading them. He hadn't thought that she was truly tenacious enough to pull this off. But his mind refused to let him think of any less drastic possibilities.

If he drove quickly, he could be at the village in just under an hour and a half. Maybe this was what people referred to as 'karma'.


	5. Dangerous

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Five: Dangerous**

Mia was still unsure how she made it through that afternoon. The irony of what she had done made her stomach churn, until it took all of her self effort to stop herself from pulling over and throwing up on the side of the road. She would suffer through anything though, if it meant that Maya didn't have to.

The car trundled along on the winding dusty road that lead her home; she hadn't been back here in a while, but considering the current circumstances, she deduced she would now be staying here for a few days, at the very least. She couldn't stay here forever, though.

After all, Mr Armando would want his car back eventually.

Everything had been planned through secret letters and furtive telephone calls. Mia had not returned since the day she had left to become a defense attorney—and of yesterday, she could call herself one, new badge shining proudly on her lapel. Maybe it was time then, anyway, for her to make one final journey home, back to the place where everything had begun.

She had been ten when Aunt Morgan's third child was born. It was strange to think that the little girl who had always been a crying baby in her mind was now a twelve-year-old wannabe prosecutor by the name of Franziska.

It was clear from the start that Franziska, for lack of a better name, was different from her sisters. Her sisters had very little spiritual power, just like their mother, and it was no secret to Mia and her mother that Morgan was horribly ashamed of giving birth to her twin daughters. The first sign was that the twins didn't cry; at least, not more than normal babies did. They cried when they were hungry, they cried when they dirtied their diapers and they cried when Mia sang along too loudly to the radio in the kitchen while she washed the dishes. Their cries were never caused by supernatural disturbances…but Franziska's were.

She remembered trying to sleep the day after Franziska's birth. Franziska never stopped crying, and no matter how tightly Mia wrapped the pillow around her head, the continuous cries resounded inside her head. Mia's mother told her that the new baby saw ghosts, and this was a very bad sign.

When Mia had asked why, her mother had let her in on a secret. Aunt Morgan was actually her older sister, and really, the rightful heir to the title of Master of the Kurain channelling technique.

It did not take long for her mother to deduce that Franziska was not Morgan's husband's daughter. The father of the twins was a businessman in the jewellery trade and was very rarely, if ever, in the village. The dates, her mother told her, just didn't match up. She hadn't really understood what her mother had meant back then, but had just nodded her head and pretended that she had.

After Franziska was snatched away, her mother told her it was for the good of the Fey clan, that Morgan with no spiritual power of her own had no hope of challenging the place of Master without a spiritually strong daughter.

Her mother had believed that it was for the good of the family, that they would not be safe with this new baby around them. But as she grew older, sometimes Mia found herself doubting that. Then she remember the way her mother used to rub her stomach when she said that, heavily pregnant, unborn daughter kicking around inside her.

She would do anything to keep Maya safe and it had even started before her birth. But in the end, it had all been for nothing, hadn't it? Even if Aunt Morgan _didn't_ have Franziska, there was Pearly. Sweet little Pearly, barely two years old. Mia wouldn't want her involved in anything of this either.

It was the day after Pearl's birth that Mia knew her ultimate destiny lay outside the boundaries of Kurain Village. The night she spent with her pillow around her head, trying to block out the screams of the tiny body had confirmed her very worse fears. Aunt Morgan had another chance.

She had hoped that when she pulled up in front of Fey Manor that Maya would be inside. It would have made everything dreadfully easier. But Maya was full of exuberance and excitement and almost bounced up to the older sister she hadn't seen in a year and a half. "Sis!" Maya shouted, arms flinging around her sister's shoulders. "You've come back!"

Maya was innocent, so hopelessly innocent, that sometimes it frightened Mia. But she spent every day fighting to preserve that very same innocence, so maybe it should not have been too much of a shock.

Mia had smiled clumsily, all though she had been feeling hollow for the past few hours. She wouldn't be able to be sick now—there was nothing inside of her that she could expel to make her feel better. She _was_ the sickness. "I brought burgers, Maya, but they went cold in the car."

Maya looked thoughtful for a moment. "Don't worry, Mystic Mia," she said, voice too chipper for Mia's liking, "Aunty Morgan just bought a microwave!"

She let Maya run off with the bag of burgers, then walked around to the back of the house, where Aunt Morgan was waiting.

…

Franziska opened her eyes and yet she could still not see anything; there seemed to be some sort of coarse material covering her eyes. She could feel smooth floorboards underneath her body, but her arms seemed to be bound behind her back. Her head felt as though it was about to split in half; even if she had been permitted to stand up, she doubted she would have been able to.

She could hear people talking but the voices were soft, as though they were in some sort of adjoining room, or maybe it was just hard to hear with her headache.

"She's...still not…"

"...not easy, Mystic Mia…"

"…I did…the Fey clan…"

"…mother…be proud…"

"…_Manfred von Karma _…joking!"

"…the truth."

"I…what…I done?"

"Only what you had to."

Her papa's name. They knew who her Papa was. Surely this meant that they understood the consequences of their actions. She did not know where she was, but she knew what must have happened. It was too much, it was all too much. The voices faded.

…

Mia heard tyres dragging; large dust clouds appeared on the horizon. Someone was driving up the road, and unless things had changed since the last time she had been home, no-one else in Kurain knew how to drive a car. It simply wasn't considered necessary for the village life.

Von Karma, von Karma, von _Karma_. No matter how many times she repeated the legendary prosecutor's name under her breath it did not make the situation seem any less surreal. Did Aunt Morgan know what she had done? Manfred von Karma was _ruthless_, and Mia now knew she had abducted his daughter. Twice.

The driver's side door opened, and von Karma stepped out, looking every bit like he did when Mia had seen him from the other side of the courtroom last week ; she had been Mr Grossberg's legal aide that day. Even though the entire office had been working long hours to put all their effort into this case, Mr Grossberg's arguments had still been shattered every single time. Mr Hammond had even developed a peculiar tic; his left eye twitched at the mere mention of the name 'von Karma'.

She looked closer, and if she mentally removed a few of the wrinkles and added a bit more colour back to the hair, she could almost recognize him as the man sitting in the back seat of the car that dark, rainy night ten years ago as her mother cradled Aunt Morgan's newborn daughter in her arms, a soft smile on her lips.

_Mia is ten, and her mother is huge. She lays her head against her mother's enlarged stomach, trying to feel the kick of her little sister's feet. Her mother looks thoughtful, a hand on her stomach as the other hand plays with Mia's hair. "You'd do anything," Mother asks, "to keep our family safe, wouldn't you, Mia?"_

That barely needs questioning. "Of course I would, Mother!" Times have been tough ever since Maya's father had died eight months ago. Jack Fey was one of the kindest men Mia had ever met; she had called him Daddy too, even though her own father had left the village when she was a little girl. Her family doesn't need any more sadness, not right now.

"Morgan's baby is a danger to our family. There's no telling what may happen, given the opportunity. That's why…" Her voice lowers, almost as if she is ashamed of something. "…I must strike first."

The plan is simple, Mother tells her. The baby's father wants his daughter, away from Morgan's influence, and Mother says she can't exactly blame him. So, why not give him what he wants, when it's also what's going to be safest for their soon-to-be family of three? They can't let any more tragedies happen, Mother says, and this really is just another one waiting to happen.

Mia thinks about when Daddy was snatched away from her in the accident seven months ago, and she asks her mother if it's really right to take the baby away from her mother. Mother laughs and pats Mia's head, almost condescendingly. "Her father will take care of her," she assures Mia.

After a little bit more pestering, Mia finds out about the payment. Mother looks guilty for a brief moment, but then admits that Morgan's husband hasn't been taking care of the village's finances the way he'd promised, and they really need the money.

So then Mia asks when her mother is going to take the baby to her father. Mother laughs then, and says, "Tonight, but that's the role you play, Mia darling. After all, in my state, I cannot exactly go crawling through windows."

Mia knew her mother's plan had been too simple. "Tonight?" she asks.

"Morgan is supervising an overnight training session in the meditation room at the manor. At ten tonight, you are to go over to their house. Don't mind the twins too much if you run into them; they're not used to seeing people. The baby has been at Aunt Morgan's house since yesterday, when she moved back to her house after recovering from the birth, so she shouldn't be too hard to find."

The plan still sounds too simple, but her mother tells her not to worry: it's supposed to be. "Mia?" her mother asks. "I know it's hard, but you're growing up. Sometimes adults have to do things that they rather wouldn't do." Mother stretches her arms out; she cannot hug Mia properly, the belly gets in the way. "Never forget, Mia; I love you. You'll be a great Master of the Kurain channelling technique one day. "

They finalise the details and slowly yet surely, Mia convinces herself that she is doing the right thing. After all, Mia can't imagine ever wanting to hurt her sister, and her sister's not even born yet. Mother would only have Aunt Morgan's best interests at heart, and Mother has even told her that the baby's dangerous.

Ten o'clock that night she finds herself walking towards the other end of the village with only a single candle for light. She can barely see, but she weaves her way knowingly around the winding streets.

Because of the darkness, she almost walks into the little girl sitting by the steps leading up to the house. She moves the candle closer to get a better view. The girl is making a daisy chain, a long link of flowers already lie at her feet. "Hi," Mia whispers, her voice quiet in the empty night.

Iris (she thinks it's Iris; the quiet twin who's the only one who ever leaves the house) looks up and stares at her, eyes blank and wide. Mia thinks the only reason why Iris is allowed to sit here, pulling up flowers, is that she doesn't speak at all.

Mia walks around to the side wall, and is conscious of the fact that Iris has stood up to follow her, daisies trailing after her. Mia stands by the window and hesitates. Then she feels Iris behind her, and her small hands lift up a crown of daisies and place them on Mia's head. Mia lifts the window, and leans one foot against the wall for support and hooks her other leg over the windowsill. She's not used to this whole climbing through windows thing, but any sore muscles she might acquire will be well worth it.

After all, the baby is dangerous.


	6. Dolly

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Six: Dolly **

_It's light inside the house, which is a good thing because Mia suddenly remembers that she left the candle outside. Hopefully it doesn't burn the house down, and hopefully Iris doesn't pick it up. She's in the room where Mother told her the baby would be, but she can see no baby, but only a little girl._

…Iris? But Iris was behind her when she climbed in the window; she had placed the daisies on Mia's head. She would have heard if Iris had clambered in behind her. This must be Iris's twin sister, the twin she's never seen.

"What's your name?" Mia asks, wondering if this one actually talks.

The little girl smiles angelically, the same smile Mia has seen on Iris's lips on very rare occasions. "You can call me Dolly."

"Dolly, then," Mia affirms, looking around at the unfamiliar room. It is littered with little pieces of paper, scissors lying on the floor. "Where's your sister?" She can't see the baby anywhere.

"The bitch's sitting outside," Dolly says in a sing-song voice, and Mia does a double-take.

"What did you say?" It's a bad word, Mia knows; she heard it once and asked Mother what it meant, and Mother told her it wasn't nice to call someone that.

"Bitch," Dolly repeats. "Father calls Mother one all the time."

She doesn't have time to correct Dolly on her bad language, though; it's clear that Dolly is talking about her twin, Iris, rather than her baby sister.

"Your other sister," Mia clarifies, and Dolly grins.

"I don't have one," Dolly replies with a shake of the head. "Only the bitch."

It's clear that she's not going to get any more information out of Dolly; regardless of if she's lying or telling the truth as she knows it. The baby is not in this room and Mia walks to the door that she thinks will lead to the hallway, only to be stopped by Dolly, now wielding the scissors that had been lying on the floor.

"Mother says no-one's to go in there." Dolly smiles; her face is sweet; the sharp edge of the scissors point at Mia's face.

Mia frowns, she could easily shove past Dolly if only the scissors weren't there. They unnerve her. The twins are six_._

"Mother says I can play out here if I promise to guard the room." Dolly points to the door that Mia tried to entered earlier. "She says if I'm a bad girl, I'll be locked in my room again."

"Oh."

"It's not fair though," Dolly says, looking up at Mia with eyes swimming with tears, which look real, but feel fake. "The bitch is allowed outside." Her lip does a practiced wibble.

Mia is getting frustrated at her lack of progress. Scissors or no scissors, she needs to know what's behind that door. Her mother can only wait for so long in the rain on the winding road that leads to the village, and if Mia doesn't come soon, Mother might think she has failed.

Quickly, her hands darts out over Dolly's shoulder, reaching for the knob. Dolly raises the scissors as Mia does so; the scissors aren't as sharp as Mia had feared, but they still hurt as they scrape angry red lines onto her skin. The daisy crown falls off her head, flowers scattering at her feet.

Dolly grins then; it's not the same sweet smile she shares with her sister Iris. Whereas Iris's eyes are dull and vacant, staring off into nowhere, Dolly's eyes are passionate, Mia can almost see a bright fire burning inside them.

"I said you can't_," Dolly reprimands, waving the scissors in front of Mia. Know that she knows that they're not sharp, she has no fear of reaching out and grabbing them by the blade._

Dolly looks lost for a moment, looking at her empty fist as if she cannot believe her toy has been taken away from her. She latches onto Mia's bare arm, each hand twisting the skin in different directions. Mia hisses, shaking her arm to relieve herself of her little cousin who's dangling off it. With one wild movement, Dolly loses her grip and falls to the floorboards.

"Bitch," Dolly hisses over a sprained ankle; Mia doesn't look back. The handle turns easily, and she's in a small room now. There isn't much in it; a sleeping mat on the floor and a crib in the corner. A crib.

Although the furniture is sparse, the room is full of sound. The baby is crying loudly, desperately. Mia creeps over to the crib, her footsteps growing softer even though there is no risk of waking the baby because she's already awake.

Mia knows from her training why the baby is crying. Without proper experience with channelling spirits, it's impossible to control when they decide to visit you. That is why spirit mediums have to train—so they can sleep at night.

She wonders who the baby sees, wonders which spirits would feel a close link to this newborn human girl. She doesn't even know how to pick up a baby—Mother said she'd teach her, after her sister, Maya, was born—but Maya hasn't been born yet, so Mia doesn't know.

Mia knows the head is an important part of the body and the baby's head looks so fragile she realises she has to support it. Cautiously she picks the baby up in her arms. The screams don't stop, but she never expected them to. She can feel her skin growing warmer under her Magatama. The Magatama is supposed to protect her from spirits and makes it easier for her to control her channelling powers, but the baby's spiritual powers are unrefined and they are creating havoc on Mia's own self control.

The room she finds the baby in has its own window, and Mia opens that one as she doesn't want to pass by Dolly again. In fact, she never wants to see Dolly again. Maybe that was why Aunty Morgan locked her up.

It's hard to climb out a window with a baby in her arms, but through sheer determination (and the fact that this window is a bit larger than the one she entered) she manages it; she's standing outside again, rain drizzling from the sky and she can't help but think that the night is beautiful, and that she is helping her mother doing something inherently horrible.

She can see dark shapes manifesting in the corners of her eyes and doesn't want to look because she knows she'll be afraid of what she sees. The shapes are still indistinct and don't force themselves into her field of vision yet.

It's getting later and later, surely it is past bed time now. She can't find the candle again, it's not there anymore, and neither is Iris. She wants to wonder, wants to know more about these twins, because then, maybe, only maybe, she will understand the baby she holds in her hands. She doesn't have the time to wonder though; Mother is waiting.

She can feel the spirits closing in, and the Magatama feels hot enough to brand her skin. She wants to yell and rip it off, but she doesn't because the baby has stopped screaming, and if she sets her down now, the screams will start again. "Mia!" She hears Daddy's voice calling her name over the wind and before she can close her eyes so she doesn't have to see_, he's standing in front of her, same smiling Daddy she knew and loved, bleeding streams of red from the shoulder where his arm has been cut cleanly off. He holds the detached arm in his other hand as though it's some sort of gimmicky prop—maybe a mere puppet of an arm. But the arm is pale, the fingers don't move like they would if it was just a puppet and Mia can feel the screams building up in her throat. She had never wanted to see Daddy like this, and even though she closes her eyes now, the image is burned into the inside of her mind, never to be erased._

She clutches the baby closer to her chest, her Magatama resting on the baby's soft little cheek. Maybe the touch will sooth her and make the demons go away. That's what Mother calls spirits when they're unwanted: Demons_._

Eyes still closed, she runs all the way down the street, back to where Mother is waiting. Even though she's running, away from her demons, away from what she's just done, she is thinking.

It'll all work out in the end, won't it? The baby is dangerous; its powers are strong, Mia can attest to that. The baby is also beautiful, even when she's screaming her head off. Small chubby fingers wrap around one of her own, and Mia feels a tear slipping down her cheek.


	7. Cooperation

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Seven: Co-operation**

When Franziska awoke this time, she could move again and the blindfold had been removed from her eyes. It did not take her long to recognise the woman kneeling in front of her. It was the very same woman she had met in the park, still wearing the very same clothes. Franziska wondered how long she had been here for, and how long it would be before Papa found her.

The woman regarded her curiously, head cocked to the side almost like a curious kitten. "You're Franziska von Karma, correct?"

Franziska held her chin up high. She wouldn't let this woman know how bizarre it was that she knew her name, considering Franziska had never been to America before. Now, if this had happened at home, back in Frankfurt—everyone knew who she was back there. "I am Franziska von Karma, the Prodigy. Who are you?"

The woman paused for so long that Franziska was suspicious. 'Name' was a routine question that most people knew how to immediately answer. 'Occupation' was also another routine question, but Franziska already knew that this woman was a piece-of-scum defense attorney.

"My name's not important." The woman smiled, as if Franziska should have known that she wasn't going to divulge her identity. "But you can call me…Misty."

The pause before the name confirmed her suspicions that the woman—Misty, for lack of a better name—had not told her the truth. Then again, it really _wasn't_ important right now. Papa could get Misty's real name later—when she was convicted.

"Do you know why you're here?" Misty continued, unwrapping the scarf that she wore around her neck and removing a glowing green jewel that had been hanging off it.

Franziska crossed her arms across her chest. "No, I don't recall you informing me about your motive before rendering my unconscious state." Misty didn't reply immediately and Franziska took the chance to observe her surroundings. She seemed to be in a large room, but it was very dark; the only light was supplied by hundreds of candles scattered around the boundaries of the room and she saw the shadows of three people flickering against the wall.

…Three?

"I'm here to help you, Franziska—"

"Because abducting me was very helpful; I thank you," she interjected, without taking her eyes off the wall. Did she want to know what she would see if she looked towards the source of the shadow?

"I didn't mean to…"

"That must take a great deal of skill, an accidental kidnapping." Honestly, this woman had to be the most foolishly foolish fool of all the foolishly foolish fools Franziska had met in her entire life.

"Look," Misty commanded, but Franziska still didn't turn around. "I'm here to teach you how to control when you see spirits."

_Spirits_. First her name, now this woman knew one of her greatest secrets as well. Miles was the only person Franziska had ever told about the troubles she had getting to sleep. Now this woman was claiming that she could help? It was ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous, even though there was no way Misty should have known.

She turned around and the bleeding man with the gunshot wound was smiling at her kindly, candle light reflecting off his glasses. "Does that mean you see him too?" she asked Misty, pointing to the man.

Misty shook her head. "We see our own ghosts, Franziska."

"You see them too?" Curiousity killed the cat, and it was possible that it would kill the young German girl who had been kidnapped in America, but she didn't care anymore. She had to know that her mind hadn't been playing tricks on her all along, had to know that she wasn't on the descent into the depths of madness.

"That's where training comes in," Misty responded, holding up the glowing jewel. "This is a Magatama, charged with spiritual energy. It allows you to focus your spiritual powers and also helps you ward off unwelcome apparitions." She slipped the Magatama into Franziska's outstretched hand; she had expected it to feel smooth and cold underneath her skin, but it was so _hot_. So hot that she had to pass it back and forth between her hands to prevent it from burning her skin. "This will make it easier when you try to channel your first spirit—it will be best to try one you already have a close connection to, the one you see the most often, as it will probably come more willingly, unless, of course there is a good reason to not channel the spirit of that person—"

Misty stopped in the middle of her sentence because Franziska had thrown the Magatama with all her might and it had hit Misty on the side of her face. "Why are you throwing my family heirlooms around?" Misty demanded to know as she bent down to pick it up.

"Take your family heirlooms; take your foolish spirits; I just want to go back home!"

Misty took in a shallow breath. "I'm afraid that we have no chance but to cooperate."

"I would _never_ co-operate with a _criminal_ like you!" Franziska spat. "Just let me out. Now!" she demanded, her hands on her hips. She was behaving like a child, but she didn't care. As long as she still felt angry and indignant, it left her very little time to feel the emotion she was afraid of most: fear.

"I really wish I could," Misty started, as Franziska snorted disbelievingly, "but I'm as trapped in here as you are."

"…What?" Franziska didn't like where this conversation was headed.

"The door that leads to this channelling chamber locks from the outside, and besides, I don't have the key, and we won't be allowed out until you perform your first channelling. She comes in every few hours to check in on you, but you've been out of it for the most part."

"Because you knocked me unconscious." Franziska glowered.

Misty sighed. "If I had any idea…any idea that you were Manfred von Karma's daughter, I would never have done what I did."

"So, if my Papa was just some ordinary man, you wouldn't be afraid of him and think it was perfectly justified to kidnap me, would you? That's even _worse!_!" she cried, her hands balling into fists. She was so, so, angry now. She wanted to hit, kick, punch and scream, but if what Misty was saying was true…she just wanted to get out of this dark, forbidding room. Maybe then it would be easier to escape.

Misty flinched at Franziska's words; Franziska wondered if she had hit a sore point. Misty had abducted her, basically snatched her off the street, and now the older woman looked as though she were about to cry. After a brief pause, she struggled to plaster the same fake smile onto her face. "I don't think you understand, Franziska. We're not taking you _away_. We're bringing you back _home_."

Franziska's heart started thrumming again. Home? Home was Germany, a place with every passing moment she feared that she was never going to see again. She had been born in Germany, raised in Germany, had never even _left_ Germany until a week ago, to come to this country. Papa had been right. She never should have come here. It was meant to be a present, though. Papa knew how much she missed Miles, but Miles was so busy with helping Papa and laying the foundations of his own soon to be started career that it made a long trip to America at that point in time quite impossible. This was meant to be Franziska's present for finally passing the bar; Papa had been so _proud_.

Then Miles had basically ignored her. If she had known this would happen if she left the house in America alone, she would have gone anywhere with Miles, even if he hadn't talked to her, just standing beside him, thinking of a time when they were both happier would have been good enough.

They could have gone to the beach. Franziska had never been to the beach. Her elder sister, Lisbeth, had been planning to take Franziska down to her holiday house with her husband, Herr Paffenholz, over the summer to 'spend more time as a family', as Franziska had only really spent time with her elder sister on three separate occasions. On this trip, Lisbeth had wanted Franziska to meet her two-year-old daughter, Katja. However, the plans had fallen through because Manfred had decided to take Franziska to visit Miles in America instead.

Franziska wondered if she would ever see the ocean. "What do you mean, 'bringing me home'?" she demanded.

Misty just looked sad. "You mean…you don't know?"

"I don't know what?" Franziska's tone was growing more insistent. This woman was _definitely_ keeping something from her, some sort of detail about her past. But her past was simple and uncomplicated, apart from the fact that she had never met her mother. Her _mother_. Did Misty know who her mother was?

"I can see why your father would keep it to himself," Misty said, more to herself than to Franziska. "After all, you're just a child."

"I am not a _child_!" Franziska countered. "After all, I passed the bar last week."

Misty had been passing the Magatama from hand to hand while she had talked to Franziska. But now it clattered to the floor as Misty looked at Franziska with a clear look of disbelief on her face. "You _what_?" she screeched.

"I start in February."

"You…" Misty panted. "That's insane!"

"No. You know what is insane? Seeing these ghosts, _spirits_, that is insane."

Misty's face brightened, as if she had just remembered something she had forgotten. "That's right, Franziska. It's easier to control when you see them if you've purposely channelled one before. Here, take this again."

Franziska didn't really want to, however, she wanted the spirits to go away, so she could have a normal life. She didn't have much time for the supernatural. Nonetheless, her fingers curled around the Magatama.

"Close your eyes," Misty commanded. Franziska felt uneasy. She didn't want to close her eyes; she wanted to be able to see what was happening at all times. But it didn't seem as though she would be able to leave the room until she went along with these instructions. "Focus your feelings through the Magatama. Imagine the face of the spirit that you see clearly in your mind." As an afterthought, Misty added, "For your first time, it's probably easier if you're sitting down."

Franziska thought about objecting, not wanting to put herself in a more vulnerable position, but in the end she obediently sat cross-legged on the floor. The dead man's face was still at the forefront of her mind, so focusing on it was not difficult at all.

"Breath in, then out. Slowly, but surely."

Fighting to control her breathing from speeding up, she started to feel the Magatama growing cooler in her hands. Soon it reached the threshold where it was so unbearably cold that she almost dropped it. She could almost feel her fingers going numb.

Then she felt nothing at all.

…

Gregory Edgeworth was fairly sure that he was dead. Now, however, he found himself in a dark room, wearing what felt like a short dress. This was rather embarrassing, but hopefully there wasn't anyone in the room to see him like this.

However, it looked as though his luck was still out. "Who are you?" A woman's voice asked, and Gregory turned around to face the woman.

"I'm dead," Gregory replied. "I think this is the second time I've come back though." The first time he had awoken in a police questioning room; they had asked Gregory who had murdered him. In truth, Gregory had no idea, but there had only been three people in the elevator: Miles, the court bailiff, Yanni Yogi, and himself. As Miles was already unconscious, and Gregory knew he would remember if he shot himself, the only possible person left was the bailiff. He wondered if he had done the right thing, in fingering something even though he wasn't a hundred percent sure. It was definitely the most logical conclusion.

"The second?" the woman asked. "You mean, someone's channelled you before?"

"Oh, so is that what this is?" Gregory asked, even though he was squinting he still couldn't focus on the woman's face without his glasses. "You can channel the spirits of dead people?"

"Yes, the spiritual powers are passed down by the women in my family."

"Your family, hmm. Does that mean you're related to Misty Fey? Apparently, she is the person who channelled me for the police's interview before the trial."

There was a stifled gasp of recognition. "She's my mother."

Gregory open his mouth to say something, but at that precise moment—

_BANG._

His face paled. He would know that sound anywhere. That…was a gunshot. Apparently, Misty's daughter knew this too, as she started yelling, "Aunt Morgan, Maya and Prosecutor von Karma are out there! Oh…_Maya!_."

"Prosecutor von Karma?" Gregory did a double take. The last time he had been present in the living world, he had heard that von Karma had taken a holiday from prosecuting. Obviously, whatever time and year it was now, he was back.

Misty's daughter shook her head. "His daughter's the one channelling you at the moment. Maya—I have to get out there!"

_Daughter?_ Gregory looked down at the dress he was wearing. It seemed a bit too small to be Lisbeth's, and he had never come across anything in his research into Manfred von Karma to suggest that Lisbeth had any spirit channelling powers. Misty's daughter had said that the spiritual powers were passed down through the female side of the family, and Gregory ought to know better than anyone that Lisbeth's mother had no such powers. "So, how do we get out?"

"We can't," Misty's daughter moaned. "Aunt Morgan locked me in here with Franziska soon after Mr von Karma arrived."

_Franziska_. Of course, Manfred von Karma's younger daughter, the one Gregory had never fathomed von Karma had the time to father, seeing as he was always in America. During his research of von Karma, he had never found out who the mother of this second daughter was.

"Look," Gregory said, "it's possible that someone out there has just gotten shot. We have to get out of here and help them." He wondered why he cared; considering that he was dead, nothing left in this world should have mattered to him anymore. But as soon as Misty's daughter had mentioned the name von Karma, he was hooked. He had to see Manfred von Karma again. Maybe this was the last chance he would have to receive the answers to the questions he had always asked himself.

"But I don't have the key." The two of them were standing by the door now; Misty's daughter placed a hand flat against it.

"I don't know," Gregory said. "The door doesn't look too strong…maybe if I had a bit of a run-up…" He wasn't as strong as he used to be as a young man, but Misty's daughter looked determined enough to help. There seemed to be people she cared about on the other side of the door.

_BANG_. This time, the gunshot was followed by a bone-chilling scream. It seemed familiar somehow, as if he had heard it somewhere, a long time ago.

Misty's daughter seemed determined. "All right," she decided. "We'll run at the door together and see if it works." She looked as though she hoped it did, but thought it wouldn't. Gregory listened carefully for her footsteps as they walked backwards together as he didn't trust himself not to walk into any walls. "Now," Misty's daughter directed, and they ran back towards the door.


	8. Perfect Fool

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who's been reviewing so far! Starting from this chapter onwards there's going to be fairly long flashback scene. I know it can get sort of annoying to read large chunks of italics, but I've left it as italics for now. If you find that it's really annoying, please let me know and I'll stop using the italics and find a different way to show the difference between past and present. **

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Eight: Perfect Fool **

Manfred von Karma had not behaved so utterly foolishly in a very long time. He usually never went anywhere without a plan, but he had trundled all the way to Kurain Village without giving a moment's thought as to what he would do once he arrived, just like the first time he had come all the way to these mountains.

The village had been same as it had been twelve years ago, the people, however, were not. The moment he had got out of the car, he had been presented with a twelve-year-older version of Misty's eldest daughter, Mia. Why he hadn't made the connection when he had seen her last week in court was beyond him. She had merely been the defense's aide, helping that old fool Grossberg to little effect. Then, the last person he had wanted to see, Morgan Fey, had ushered the girl inside before he was able to say anything.

He never expected to come back here. This was a place he tried to forget: the place where his perfect life had come crashing down around him. He had rushed inside, all his usual self-control pushed inside. Things happened when he lost his temper. Things he could never take back. He had almost forgotten about the gun in his pocket; he had illegally taken it from the evidence room earlier that day. Some people called it tampering with evidence, he called it preparation. A perfect trial never left anything up to chance. There were too many crimes in the world already to let criminals walk free because of flimsy evidence. It happened often. He himself knew that all too well.

He was one himself, wasn't he? A _criminal_. The compulsion to make sure that his life was lived perfectly was merely a cover to ensure that he never lost his composure. Because as soon as things started spiralling out of his control…his actions were unforgivable.

Morgan stood at the village's entrance, a cup of tea in her hand. Manfred had always hated that tea. There was no need for introductions, after all, they already knew each other. "Where is my daughter?" he demanded, advancing upon the woman.

She merely took a sip of her tea. "I have no idea what you are talking about, good sir."

That, of course, was a lie. Manfred knew that Morgan Fey knew exactly what he was talking about, and it had all started here over thirteen years ago, just a little away from this very same village.

_The funeral had been perfect, of course. He and Lisbeth had played the roles of grieving husband and daughter so well that he almost felt sad, instead of horribly numb. Maybe Lisbeth actually was sad; he didn't know, she had moved out of the house over five years ago to pursue her career as a surgeon: the hospital kept her busy now._

Maybe Lisbeth coped better because she could fully comprehend all the medical jargon that the doctors used as his wife's state deteriorated. His expertise was with legal terminology. He knew that his wife had breast cancer, and that was enough for everything else to start going horribly, horribly wrong. He didn't want to spend time with her anymore; didn't want to spend time by her bedside, holding her hand; that was something Lisbeth did. Instead he surrounded himself with work. Usually paperwork was his least favourite part of being a prosecutor (was it even possible to fill out some of these forms perfectly?), but he found himself taking on more and more, so that he wouldn't be at the house when Lisbeth rang from Germany, asking where he was and when he was coming home?

He hadn't been with his wife in her last moments; he had known what happened as soon as he had answered Lisbeth's call and she hadn't asked him where he was. He had, however come home for the funeral. He had made sure that Lisbeth would be all right—and it seemed that she would. She had her new fiancé, Alexander Paffenholz, to take care of her now. He seemed adequate_ enough; no man in his mind would ever be perfect enough for Lisbeth._

Manfred, however, had no-one to take care of him. Lisbeth, after all, had her own life now. Now his wife was dead, he had no-one. Just him.

He had went back to America on his own, and even though he always lived in his Los Angeles house by himself, it felt emptier now, to see the photographs over the mantelpiece and to know that she wasn't waiting for him back home.

Maybe that what had prompted him to drive to the mountains. He didn't want to be alone that night. Maybe if he looked out, down over the city, he would feel a part of the world again, feel as though, somewhere, to someone, he mattered_._

It's New Year's Morning, 1998, and he's standing in a clearing where he can see the fireworks. It's a new year, but he has nothing left to live for. What does he have left in his life? Just a perfect record, just a good name to upkeep. For what purpose? A perfect record means everything to him; he is perfect at everything that he ever does. Then again, it also means nothing because every second he plans for perfection, forgetting what it means to truly live. And as for the name, it ends with him. There is no doubt Lisbeth will be a Paffenholz soon.

Then there is a laugh. A quiet laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "Who is there?" he asks, more to himself than to anyone else, trying to assure himself that he is truly alone. But he isn't.

A woman comes stumbling out from behind the tree, and she is beautiful. Short dark hair falls straight down to her chin. There's a glass of champagne in her hand and she holds it up when she sees Manfred. "Happy New Year!" she greets him, but he doesn't respond.

Then, she sidles closer. "What's wrong? You look upset. My name is Misty; I live near here. I can help you, if you have nowhere to go."

He can turn around and go home now; the new year's come in but it doesn't feel like a fresh start at all. But even though he has a house to go back to, there's nothing there awaiting his return.

Then, there is this woman standing beside him, reminding him entirely of his now dead, gone, deceased_ wife the first time he had met her. He had been in the courthouse's library, when a woman came running through, chasing after a nine-year-old boy. Before Manfred had know what was happening, the boy ran straight into him, then bounced up without even the barest of apologies._

"I'm sorry!" the woman had apologised instead, offering a hand to Manfred to help him stand up, but he had not taken it. "Gregory gets excited at the thought of legal texts; I promised my parents I'd take him here the next time I came because he keeps babbling about law all the time at home. I'm sorry!" she repeated again, when Manfred had glared icily at her. "I should introduce myself, shouldn't I? I'm Frances Edgeworth, this kid here's my little brother," she said, grasping the top of Gregory's head firmly as the boy tried to squirm out of her grip.

"That's…nice," Manfred had said, while really meaning, 'Please get out of my sight now.'

She seemed to take the hint, that time, but after that, she was everywhere. It wasn't long before she had discovered where he lived, and Manfred's mother had started dropping hints about marriage. His mother said she was a nice enough girl, who would make the perfect wife, in the long run. She was well-educated and rich, and very pretty too. His mother also pointed out that Manfred's demeanour tended to scare off most other women, so why not the only one who wasn't_ afraid of him?_

The wedding had been perfect, of course, and their daughter, Lisbeth…well, she had been perfect too. Frances and Lisbeth lived in Germany with Manfred's mother until Manfred's mother died. Manfred sometimes regretted spending as much time in America as he did, but it was unavoidable. He knew he could not feel any glory working in the German courts. In America though, he was keeping more and more criminals off the streets and behind bars. Life had been perfect. Completely and utterly perfect. He could still not understand how it had all gone so horribly wrong.

He should have turned back to the fireworks as soon as Misty started talking to him, but instead, he finds himself answering her question. "My wife is dead, and I have no-one to go back home to." He doesn't add that even when she was alive, he and his wife tended to live on separate continents.

"Stay with us," Misty says, a soft hand on the crook of his arms. "No-one should spend the holidays alone."

He doesn't say anything in response as they stand side by side until the fireworks display is finished. Then, silently, as Misty turns away, he follows. He learns a lot about her on the walk to the village where she lives. She turned thirty a few months ago, just after getting married to her husband, Jack. She has a nine-year-old daughter, but she doesn't mention the girl's name, or who her father is. Misty's mother is dying, but Misty says she's not sad because her mother has had a long, fruitful life.

They were in the village now and Misty directs him through her house. She calls it a manor, but compared to the von Karma estate in Germany, it is but a shack. There's a spare room here, she points out, but Manfred hasn't been paying attention really to where is he going, it doesn't matter, Misty's given him a map. What he has been wondering about is the strange inscriptions carved into some of the walls, and what the names of the rooms Misty has walked him through mean. He asks her, and for once, she falls silent, doubt passing across her face. Then, as though deciding it would best to answer truthfully, she responds, "The women of the Fey family who live in Kurain village are spirit mediums."

"Spirit mediums?" Manfred asks dubiously.

"It means we can communicate with the dead."

He understands why she had hesitated now; she knew that he had recently suffered from a loss, and she didn't know if he was the type of person who would seize the opportunity, or be terrified of the possibility. Is it possible for people to do such a thing? He isn't sure. If he can just see Frances one more time, he will be able to ask her questions. She always knew the perfect solution to any problem. In fact, he doesn't even have questions, in the plural sense. He only has one question: what on earth is he meant to do with his life now?

Misty regards him curiously, then gently puts a hand on his shoulder. "You know, if you ever want to speak to her again...I'll be able to arrange it for you." The thought is a great source of comfort, but he knows he is not ready for it yet. Instead, he thanks Misty for her hospitality, and falls asleep, wondering how he is going to get home tomorrow when he cannot remember where _he parked his car._

__

__


	9. The Accident

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Nine: The Accident**

_He does manage to find his car the next day, and he drags himself back into work. Work is the only thing he knows how to do now, and when he runs out of tasks to complete, he doesn't find himself going back to the house and entertaining himself with a bottle of wine, but instead driving back up to the mountains again, where Misty welcomes him with open arms. He would never admit it, but it's nice to know that he's welcome somewhere. No-one at work really speaks to him: they're too afraid. _

_It becomes a pattern over the next few weeks. His letterbox is probably overflowing with junk mail despite the neat sign saying that he would accept no advertisements. His house is probably coated with a layer of dust._

Sometimes it's just nice to sit down and listen to Misty talk. But as the condition of her mother deteriorates even more, Misty suddenly becomes a lot busier. Even though she said that she wasn't sad, Manfred wondered why some days, Misty almost looked excited.

It is before one of her longer absences that Misty introduces him to her older sister, Morgan. She says that Morgan's husband is a travelling business man, and that she has trouble raising her twin daughters on her own; Morgan could really use a friend.

So, Misty leaves the two of them in the room alone together. Morgan is drinking tea and there is a jaw-droppingly large strawberry desert on the table between them. Morgan isn't like her sister; Manfred doesn't feel the slight ache he does when he spends time with Misty. Morgan is nothing like Frances.

A silence passes between them; the air is hot and heavy. Manfred has only met a few of the people who live in the village. When Misty had been busy he had gone to talk to some of the men who worked on the farm, including Misty's husband, Jack. None of the other villagers he had talked to ever knew when to shut up, but Morgan doesn't say anything at all. She just stares at him icily over the rim of her cup.

"So, tell me about yourself," Manfred says, hoping that Morgan will jump at the opportunity, just like her sister had.

She doesn't respond at first, her eyes look so dazed that Manfred wonders if she's even aware of her surroundings. Then, "My name is Morgan Fey, good sir. I am the rightful heir of the Kurain channelling technique."

Misty had told him a little about 'heirs' and 'spiritual powers', but he still did not fully understand. The only time now that he knew what he was doing and where he was going was when he was working in the office.

He finds it hard to instigate conversation with someone who isn't naturally chatty. He wonders how his life would have turned out if Frances hadn't been such a person. It is hard to imagine. Because Morgan doesn't talk about herself, he finds that he is offering information about himself, and in the end, discovers that there isn't much to say.

His name is Manfred von Karma. He is forty-seven. He has a daughter called Elisabeth. He is a prosecuting attorney, and has never lost a case in his over twenty-year long career.

That seems to spark some sort of response from Morgan. She stirs in her seat. "Good sir, what do you mean when you say that you have never lost a case?"

"I mean," Manfred answers, "that I have never lost. My cases are air-tight, the witness are compelling and the evidence is conclusive. I am perfect." He almost struggles to remember to use the present tense. Is he really perfect any longer? He should be doing paperwork in the office, but instead, he is here, drinking tea with a new friend's older sister.

There seems to be some sort of determination in Morgan's eyes now.

He should have recognised it as the formation of a plan.

…

"My daughter, Franziska," Manfred clarified, his hand tightening around the bulge in his pocket. It would not do to lose his temper, now, however. He hoped he wouldn't until his daughter was safe in his arms once more.

Morgan dropped the guise of ignorance slightly. "Her name wasn't Franziska when you abducted her…Manfred von Karma."

Of course she recognised him. It would be foolish for her not to. Not after she had taken advantage of his vulnerable state so many years ago. Not after he had been used to fulfil Morgan's own needs. He had refused to let his daughter become just another prop; it seemed to happen all too often to the women of the Fey family.

…

_Misty comes out of her mother's room with a smile on her face, and while Morgan's face stays as composed as ever, Manfred can see her hands tense slightly on her robe. Misty struggles to stop her grin from widening. "Mother's just passed away," she announces, closing the door behind her._

Manfred knows that the Feys' mother has been sickly for a long time, and he knows that Misty's said that she wasn't sad. He had not, however, expected her to look unnaturally happy. Morgan's response seems a bit more natural. She sets her cup heavily down on the table, and stares at if for a silent moment. Then, she stands up abruptly, almost knocking her seat aside. "Then I must go make preparations. Excuse me, good sir, Mystic Misty." She walks into the room that Misty has just vacated.

Manfred doesn't know what to say to Misty, but like always, Misty is ready to say what's on her mind. She raises a hand and tucks her hair behind her ears. "Morgan's just in denial," Misty tells him, although he doesn't know what Morgan is supposed to be in denial about. "An adequate shock to the system, maybe…" Her smile is bordering on insane, and for the first time, Manfred is afraid of her. She is more the cheerful, the more welcoming of the two sisters, but despite being a good head shorter than her older sister, Misty is frightening.

Misty then apologies and mumbles something about having to help with the preparations, but instead of heading back into her mother's room, she heads outside, leaving Manfred alone in the room, the desert still uneaten.

She never comes back into the room, but Manfred doesn't mind too much when he is left alone to think. Maybe one day soon he'll be able to move on with his life, dedicate more energy to his work, make his name feared by every defense attorney in the world. It is only once he hears the commotion outside a few hours later that he leaves the room himself.

Morgan and Misty stand across each other in the street. Morgan must have left her mother's room through the door that connects to the outside, rather than the house. She looks absolutely livid, but Misty is almost bouncing on her feet.

He seems to have walked into the middle of an argument, but that doesn't matter as the rest of the village is watching too. Misty's daughter clutches onto her hand, smiling too, although Manfred wonders if the daughter knows why.

"You're a fraud!" Misty announces, brazen finger pointing at her older sister. "You cannot become the Master if you cannot channel a simple spirit!"

The amassed crowd whispers among each other; Manfred hears snippets of conversations. 'Is it true?' 'She's never channelled anyone before.' 'Who'll be the Master now?' 'Such a shame, poor Morgan, overshadowed by Misty again…'

"For those of you wondering who will be the next Master, it has already been decided. Logically, the next Master is me, Misty Fey, the next in line to heir of the Kurain channelling technique! Not to mention that I have the spiritual power to carry Kurain onto further greatness!"

That seems to clear the doubt off everyone else's faces, and they cheer for Misty. One person, however, does not look happy at all. Morgan inhales deeply, then spins around and walks away from Fey Manor, to the other end of the village. Manfred can't help but feel disgusted. It's an odd feeling; normally he would have just thought that Morgan had created this bad situation on her own, but it's almost as if the more time he spends in this village, the more he changes from the person he is at court. Maybe it's not Misty's actions that are frightening, but his own changes that are occurring within him.

That's when he knows he has to leave; has to leave before he becomes too attached to this strange little village and its quirky residents. It's the only way he'll be able to maintain control over his life once more. He doesn't like feeling one way or another at other people's actions. Once upon a time, a long time ago, he could have truthfully said that murderers disgusted him. After day after day of interviewing and witness preparing, he knows the truth: that murderers are just people. Nearly anyone has the capacity, given the right circumstance, even him.

Especially him. He who prepares with evidence and witnesses so that they will fit with his version of the 'truth'. It is one of the most reprehensible acts within a court of law, but a necessary one. He is already a murderer in a way—how many of those people could have been innocent? How many of them could he have condemned to death? He would never have though about it until he came to the village; it gave him perspective on life that he really didn't want or need. He reminds himself that it's better to be safe than sorry, and he repeats the mantra to himself until he believes it again. They are all criminals. If they didn't want to hang, then they shouldn't have let themselves get caught.

The residents of the village give Morgan a wide berth, almost as if she's carrying some sort of curse. Against his better judgement, Manfred follows.

...

'Abduct,' was a harsh word, and a hypocritical one too, coming from Morgan. Manfred felt the need to justify his actions somehow. "I just wanted to keep her safe…from monsters like you." He was dangerously close to losing control now.

"Good sir, it is not I who am a monster. If you want to see a monster, then you would not have to look any further than a mirror." She took another infuriatingly annoying sip of tea. To be honest, however, it was not the sip of the tea that infuriated him, but how close the words rung to the truth.

He was the monster.

...

__

He doesn't know why he follows Morgan at all, apart from the fact that the cheering crowd makes him feel nauseous. Morgan is well aware that she is being followed, but waits until she has opened the door to confront him. He fully expects her to yell at him, especially for following her when she clearly wants to be left alone, but instead she stands still, though her hands are still shaking. "Mystic Misty always gets what she wants," Morgan says bitterly, before slamming the door in Manfred's face.

He doesn't go back to Kurain as much as he used to over the course of the next few weeks. He pushes himself and he works longer hours; sometimes he sleeps in the office, because really, he has nowhere else to go. It's not too long before people start to notice, however. An overly-helpful Winston Payne asks Manfred if he is experiencing financial difficulty, as the fold-out couch in Manfred's office doesn't look entirely comfortable. Thankfully, when Manfred glares at him, Winston scampers off in the other direction.

There's another reason he doesn't want to go back to Kurain; a situation he doesn't know how to deal with. Whenever he sees Misty now, she greets him with a kiss on the cheek and wraps her arms around his waist, and every time she does it, he can see the wedding band glittering on her finger, and he shakes her off.

It doesn't take too long for Misty's husband to grow suspicious of the nature of Misty's relationship with Manfred and one day, on one of his now less frequent visits to the farm, he is talking to one of the other men (Misty's cousin's husband or something of the sort) as they wash the cows, when Jack Fey walks up to him. Misty's daughter hangs off his arm, pleading, "Please, Daddy, no, please, Daddy, don't."

He stops in front of Manfred, and Manfred stops talking. "What do you want?" he asks, he has to crane his neck to look Jack in the eyes; the man is nearly a foot taller than he is.

"Daddy…" the girl says again, but Jack manages to shake her off, and she sits on the dusty ground with tears welling in her eyes. "Mia, this is none of your business. Just go home."

The girl looks back and forth between Jack and Manfred, jaw set as though she is prepared to argue. Then, she ducks her head and runs to a bicycle lying in the dust, and pedals away as fast as she can.

Now that Jack is no longer holding the girl's hand, Manfred can see that the other man's fists are clenched. "What do I want?" the man repeats mockingly. "I want you to stay away from my wife—I want you to stay away from my entire family. You're not welcome here."

Manfred's lip curls and he smiles. "That's not what your wife said." He knows what will happen before it actually does. With a growl, Jack lunges at Manfred; a perfectly aimed fist hits Manfred square in the eye. Manfred hasn't been in a fist fight in a long time; not since his first year of law school, back before he had learnt how to control himself, before he had been obsessed with perfection, as perfect people didn't wander around the campus with a black eye and a split lip.

He's a different person now, he tells himself; he's no longer the type to resort to his fists in an argument. So he just tries to roll away. Jack, who has been expecting him to fight back, loses  
his grip on Manfred's suit, allowing Manfred to reach into his pocket.

The stun gun is still there; it's been a few months since he's used it last—that time it was to silence an unnecessary witness. It's ironic that it will actually be used for its intended purpose. They are alone now, the other men have gone off to get help. It is one of the worst mistakes they could have made, Manfred thinks with a smile.

Jack's eyes widen as Manfred advances upon him; he recognises what Manfred is holding. Manfred, however, doesn't give him a chance to fight back. "600000 volts," he says, face twisting, as he brings the gun up to Jack's chest.

He's a big man, but it is indeed a large amount of electricity. Jack slumps to the ground, limbs twitching spasmodically, and Manfred tucks the stun gun away and wonders what he is to do next. If he walks away, the others will come back and see what he has done to Jack. If he stays, they'll still see what he has done. Manfred frowns. This probably wasn't the best idea he ever had. How could he have been so foolish? This foolish village and its foolish residents are turning him into a foolish man. There is no way to make that sort of electrical shock look like an accident.

An accident. A tractor, with bay haler attached, has been abandoned in a nearby field when the men had stopped working. Manfred can arrange an accident. He's not even thinking anymore; he's acting as though he's in a daze. He lifts up Jack's arms and pulls his body towards the field, where the tractor is. Manfred ignores the sensible, perfect side of him that is reminding him that this has to be his most utterly foolish idea yet, and reassures himself with the fact that there are no witnesses, that he will leave behind no evidence, and as for opportunity…well, he cannot deny that the opportunity is perfect.

It's just his luck that the tractor is still on; it makes the possibility of an accident occurring much more likely. The old tractor moves with a groan and when the wheel hits the body, Manfred can hear the sound of something tearing.

The tractor feels wobbly, as though it's about to collapse, and Manfred jumps out before it overturns, jarring his ankles in the process. He backs away as far as he can, and when he has run three metres, the tractor topples over, crushing Jack Fey's body underneath the bay haler. The bay haler's chains are still moving as it falls, and Jack's sleeve gets snagged on them.

There is blood, and it is everywhere. Jack Fey is dead. The first time Manfred had come to the mountains it had been to escape his wife's death. Now he has killed Misty's husband. There is nothing to do in this situation but laugh.


	10. Monster

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Ten: Monster**

_It's the young girl's screams that snap him out of his daze. He had forgotten about Misty's daughter when she had pedalled away, but she had now returned, Misty's sister trailing behind her. Did she ever go anywhere without that cup of tea?_

The girl comes running down the hill; she has already seen the fallen tractor. Morgan's pace quickens as she tries to keep pace with her niece. They end up both reaching Manfred at the same time, but where Morgan stops, the girl doesn't. She keeps running, and when Morgan tries to get a decent hold of her, the girl wriggles away. "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!," she screams, her voice verging on the edge of hysteria. He sees her run towards the overturned machinery then watches her fall to the ground, small shoulders heaving.

For the first time in a while, Manfred von Karma does not feel numb. He looks at what he has caused, but cannot think of any other word to describe it but perfect_. Jack Fey deserved what happened to him. Misty deserved it too; the way the woman had been acting lately, it was almost as though she thought she owned the world. The girl? He looks at her again, lying near the tractor in the dust. He cares not about the girl. Maybe this is what he had wanted all along; a chance to put Misty Fey in her place. When he had first met her, she had seemed innocent enough, but all witnesses _seemed_ innocent enough, when placed on the witness stand. What he had learnt about Misty is that she viewed people as her playthings; she thought that she could have everything that she ever wanted. It is with a smile that Manfred realises that this terrible accident is all Misty's fault anyway. If she hadn't clung to him so tightly, if she hadn't tried to play him for a fool by using his emotions against him, Jack would never have had any reason to pick a fight with Manfred._

He hopes she cries when she sees her husband's dead body.

"A terrible tragedy." He had almost forgotten Morgan standing beside him until she spoke. He turned to face her. Her expression was blank as her eyes travelled over his face. "You should put some ice on that swollen eye of yours, good sir."

Morgan thinks it's an accident. The plan has worked. Yells come from the top of the hill, and both Manfred and Morgan turn to see Misty standing there, surrounded by a few of the farmers who had run off to get help. Misty's face pales, and she almost runs down the hill, the men following her. "What happened?" she cries when she reaches Manfred and Morgan, and Manfred is pleased to see that there are tears forming in the corners of Misty's eyes.

"An accident," Morgan says simply, not even looking Misty in the eyes. "Mystic Mia was looking for you; she was scared that Mr von Karma here was going to be hurt."

Misty bristles at the words. "Jack would never—" Then her eyes fell on Manfred's eye. She swallowed loudly, and fell silent. "Where is Mia now, anyway?"

Morgan gestures towards the tractor, lying on its side in the field three metres away, and Misty's face goes even paler. The tears start falling now, over her cheeks and down her neck as she runs towards the tractor, screaming, "Mia! Get away from there! Now!"

The girl doesn't respond, and Misty runs towards her and pries her off the ground, holding her in her arms. Mother and daughter are clinging to each other, shaking and crying. Misty looks down then, to where part of Jack's body is sticking out from underneath the tractor. Misty screams and her daughter sobs harder.

All Manfred can think is that surely a spirit medium should be more accustomed to seeing dead people.

The man start gathering around the tractor as well, regarding it critically, Manfred can hear them asking each other how to move it. Luckily the motor's stopped, or Mystic Mia could have been seriously injured. Misty's face falls even further and she holds her head in her hands. Manfred hopes she will never smile again.

"She deserves it." It is what he has been thinking, but it is not his voice that says it.

It's Morgan's. From what Manfred understands, she has been avoiding her sister after the shameful incident that took place in front of the entire village a couple of months ago. "It seems there is no need for us to stay here." Her eyes lingered on the crowd around the tractor; it almost seems as though Morgan doesn't want to draw attention to herself in front of them. "Come, and I will find some ice for that eye."

He follows her back up the hill towards the village and neither of them speak until they're back in Fey Manor, Misty's house, and Morgan is rummaging around the freezer of an ancient refrigerator that is making loud humming noises. It turns out that what Morgan means by ice_ is in fact a large clear plastic bag of peas, and Manfred feels like an utter fool holding it up to his face in front of Morgan._

"Good sir, was it truly an accident?"

Manfred feels his heart skip a beat at the question, before telling himself that he is being utterly ridiculous and that there is no way that this woman can know_. He makes sure his face is calmly set before replying. "Of course, tractor overturns count towards almost fifty percent of fatalities on American farms."_

"Well, that as it is, it is truly a horrible tragedy. Life has been difficult for Mystic Misty lately, with having to replace our mother as the Master of the Kurain Channelling Technique, and having the police asking her if it would be possible at some point in the future, all things going well, for her to channel spirits of homicide victims to provide more insight during murder trials."

Hah_. Manfred knows all too well that any court of law would not accept superstitions such as spirit channelling to be legally valid. He wonders why the police would need spirit mediums at all, when they have him, Manfred von Karma, who has made sure that countless numbers of dangerous criminals have been served justice? The police are foolish, and often did their best to interfere with Manfred's investigations with large amounts of red tape. He had learnt how to deal with the bureaucracy; and they were more lenient on him these days, considering the results that he produced. Let the fools wish for what they wanted; it did not concern him._

However, he thinks to himself, Morgan is wrong. Life has not been difficult lately at all for Misty. Instead of despising the power she had received, she had instead been relishing it, proclaiming her life to be perfect.

If there was anything that Manfred von Karma had learnt in the past few years is that no matter how much someone tried, life never remained perfect forever. "You said that she deserves it?" Manfred asks, remembering Morgan's words back outside in the field.

"I also remember telling you a few months ago, Mr von Karma, that Mystic Misty always gets what she wants. I do not mean to cast any aspersions on her character by these words; just that her good fortune was bound to eventually have some sort of limit. Even if…" Her eyes lingered on Manfred again, and he found himself becoming afraid. He knew he should have left this blasted place for good when he had possessed the chance.

"Even if what_, Morgan?" He never usually calls acquaintances by their first names only, but he's not entirely sure whether Morgan's surname is Fey like her sister's, or if she took her husband's name, which he had learnt was 'Hawthorne', when she had married him._

"Even if it was not the forces of Fate trying to return to equilibrium. Even if something else had caused the so-called 'accident'," she muses. "You do know what I'm talking about, don't you, Manfred_?"_

She can't possibly know for sure. There had been no-one around when he had been driving the tractor. Not that he had been entirely aware of his surroundings. Thinking of the events that had transpired a couple of hours ago, he could just remember the anger pulsating though his veins. Nothing ever went perfectly when he made foolish impulsive decisions but he had thought he had been able to salvage this. "I know I look like a strong man, but even I cannot push down machinery that weighs over a ton."

Morgan smiles; it's the sort of smile that reaches her eyes, but makes them look threatening instead of comforting. "I am not sure if you are a strong man, but I have certainly discerned that you are a smart_ one; a man who would not do anything without immaculate planning. I am like this too. After all, if one wants things to go perfectly, one must have complete and utter _control_."_

"That's true," Manfred agrees. "In court I have complete and utter control over everything that occurs. This is the only way to maintain my perfect win record."

Morgan raises an eyebrow. "Only in court? Not in…other ways?"

He can sense the implication behind her words, and he hastens to correct her. "I am Manfred von Karma, and I am perfect in every_ way."_

"So," Morgan starts, leaning over the table now, her face dangerously close to Manfred's, "if you were to do something unplanned, uncontrolled_, you would do your best to cover it up, wouldn't you? You wouldn't want to anyone else to see you making such a careless mistake."_

"You make assumptions," Manfred replies curtly, "that I would ever do anything on a foolish impulse."

"So you planned_ to come all this way to this dead-end village for what purpose? To sleep with my sister? To murder her husband? I just cannot understand, good sir. You shall have to explain it to me."_

Why is he still here? He doesn't think he knows the answer to that question. Maybe he should leave tonight, go back to Germany and never return to this blasted country again. Through gritted teeth, he answers, "I don't know why I initially came here, no."

Morgan leans away, and more to herself than Manfred says, "Maybe not so perfect after all." A tense moment of silence passes between them. Manfred makes sure not to say anything to ensure he won't lose his temper, as the last thing Morgan needs is more leverage. Morgan simply stares into his face, her eyebrows slanted and angry. "It just so happens, however, that I know exactly why you're here. Your wife passed away late last year, didn't she? You came to the mountains to escape. People often do. That cliff where Mystic Misty found you—surely you must know that the bodies of the people who throw themselves off it are never recovered?

Manfred's hands are in the pockets of his pants, but he can feel them shaking. This woman has read him like a book.

She's much too close now; he can feel her breath on his cheek and her fingers playing lightly over her wrist. "Surely this must mean that you are lonely? Or has Mystic Misty been entertaining you on the side? I am a very lonely person too; my husband cares not for this village life. You will not have to worry about my_ husband giving you a black eye." Manfred had discarded the bag of peas on the table, but Morgan picks it up again and brings it back up to his face again. "See?" she asks, her other hand resting on the side of his face. "Does that not feel better already?"_

He can feel the heat growing underneath his cravat. Indignation, and arousal_? He does his best to push these unnecessary feelings out of the way. Unnecessary feelings had landed him into this mess in the first place. He had been determined to pursue his career with as little distractions as possible, but then Frances Edgeworth had managed to worm her way under his icy exterior in a number of short months, and thanks to his irrational dependence on her, the way the had grown to mutually admire each other, he had found himself with a family, wondering how it had all happened so fast. He did foolish things when he lost control, things that lead to him having people to _care_ about. He had a feeling he was about to lose control now._

He didn't say anything aloud, but in his mind hoped and almost pleaded that someone—Misty's daughter, one of the farmers, he'd even be pleased to see Misty herself now—would enter the room, and he waited anxiously to hear the sounds of footsteps at the door that never came.

It's almost as though she can read her mind as she starts loosening his cravat and he doesn't do anything to stop it. "The thing about a kitchen," she starts, fingers fiddling, and Manfred wonders why he isn't running away, "is that anyone can walk in at any moment."

"Of course." There is no point in denying that he has been thinking the same thing himself, but for hopefully different reasons.

"Do we not, as perfect people, have the obligation to make sure that we are not seen? After all, it's much better to plan ahead than to have to cover up our careless mistakes_. Wouldn't you agree?"_

Manfred has never been good at dealing with situations outside of his control, and this one was so completely over his depth. He had to try and get out of this somehow, to make sure that he was the one in charge, and not her. He shook her arms off him, like had had done to Misty plenty of times in the past, and said coldly, "If you do not let me go, I will tell Misty."

"Tell Mystic_ Misty what, exactly?" Her voice was laced with anger now; Manfred was almost amused that the mention of her sister's name could infuriate her. "That you killed her husband?"_

"Why would she believe you? I have no motive, and you have no evidence."

Morgan stays silent for a few moments. "I do not see you denying it either way, Manfred." She's standing behind him now, hands resting on his shoulders.

The cravat slips to the floor, they're moving out of the kitchen now and they have almost reached the door when Manfred hears a child's voice calling out. "Mother."

Morgan's hand tense tightly on his suit jacket, which he is surprised he is still wearing. He turns to see the source of the interruption, not sure if he should be thankful or displeased. Morgan grabs the little girl by the arm and hisses, "What do you think you're doing here? I told you to stay inside where you belong."

This must be one of Morgan's daughters. The little girl stares obstinately into her mother's face. "I want to see the sun. Iris gets to."

"If you were more like Iris, I would not have to keep you in the house all day. Iris is sweet and causes no trouble. You create trouble wherever you go, and never do what you are told. We are going home."

Manfred worries if he's safe now, safe to make his own decision as whether to flee or remain. But as Morgan wraps one hand around her daughter's wrist, her other hand tugs on Manfred's arm. "Come," she commands, and Manfred follows, although he does not fully understand why. Maybe Morgan is right. Maybe he is lonely. Maybe it's because if he leaves now, he still has the same problem that he had at the start of the year. He supposed he could dedicate the rest of his life to maintaining his perfect win record, but that was easy enough. The challenge was to make sure the rest of his life was perfect too.

The house is on the other end of the village from Fey Manor, and after a few minutes of struggling, Morgan manages to lock her kicking and screaming daughter into the room. Manfred doesn't have much experience with children, as Frances had mostly raised Lisbeth with his mother in Germany, but he wondered if maybe this daughter of Morgan's would_ be a little bit more sane if she were allowed the occasional dose of sunlight. Then he remembers that he doesn't care how other people decide to raise their children._

"We are alone at last," Morgan says, and Manfred swallows. Had she planned everything up to this moment? He cannot help but feel he has been manipulated somewhat; that Morgan had always been one step ahead. Perfect people had perfect lives with perfect families, just like his before Frances's death. Perfect people did not succumb to brief flings with married women in backwater little villages. He isn't_ perfect anymore, he is _cracked_. He has been, he realises, ever since Frances's diagnosis, ever since he lost his perfect family. What had been so easily gained has been so easily lost._

The thought itself is almost freeing. "I am not perfect," he admits, more to himself than to Morgan.

Morgan does not answer at first and pushes his suit jacket off his shoulders. "You are Manfred von Karma, and you are_ perfect."_

The admissions just keep rolling out of him. Now he has started, he finds it difficult to stop. "I am insane_," he tells her, as she lowers her lips to his jawbone. She smells like Misty._

"Insane?" she murmurs against his skin. "I think not." She pulls away then, looking Manfred in the eyes, her eyebrows raised severely. "You are just a cunning ruthless monster, at least, in the courtroom."

"How do you know that?"

"Your reputation precedes you," she answers, drawing him closer and he can feel her warm body next to his as she starts to slowly undo the buttons on his shirt. "What do you see when you look in the mirror?"

Before Frances's death, he would have seen his reflection, Manfred von Karma, the embodiment of perfection. Now days, he saw a monster, broken beyond repair, perfect life shattered to pieces. He had started to care about Misty, in a way he hadn't started to care about anyone in a long time, yet another foolish consequence of a foolish decision. He doesn't trust Misty at all now, though, not now that he knows what she's really like, and he hopes that wherever she is, she is still crying.

He wishes he could talk to Frances now; Frances always knew how to solve problems like these. Frances had shared his view of the perfect life, and he wondered if she would be disappointed in him. Then with a sudden jolt, he remembers. He is such a fool_. He has been in a village of spirit mediums for how long now? What did spirit mediums do?_

However, it's much too late for that now. Morgan is standing in front of him, still expecting an answer to her question. What did he see in the mirror? "A monster," he answers truthfully, and Morgan smiles, running her fingers up his chest.


	11. Giving In

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Eleven- Giving In**

Morgan Fey had always been one step ahead of him back then, and she probably still was now. She still knew how to get under his skin; the monster remark had shown that clearly enough. But there was no time to waste. "My daughter," he demanded. "Now!"

A small smile formed on Morgan's face. She seemed to have dropped all her pretences entirely now. "How easily you forget," she murmured. "Do you not mean _our_ daughter, good sir?"

Morgan may have given birth to Franziska, but she was just her biological mother, and nothing more. Morgan Fey was not the one who had raised Franziska; Morgan was not the one who had who had taught Franziska everything she knew, and Morgan certainly hadn't been the one who had to tell Franziska that her mother was dead. "_My_ daughter."

"I see what type of person you are. You think merely because you put a roof over her head in your large, elaborate mansion and fed her and clothed her for nearly thirteen years that you are the only one worthy of being called her parent. However, I do not remember having much choice in the matter. She would have had a great life here in Kurain. She would have had children her own age to play with, while being brought up to become the new Master of the Kurain Channelling Technique."

Manfred knew, of course, that Misty Fey, Morgan's younger sister, had been the Master, until her disappearance after DL-6. He had always known that using spirit mediums for court cases would be a preposterous idea. He wondered who the Master was now, if it was still Misty even though she was gone, or if it was now someone else?

"Of course," Morgan said, her hand on her chin in a thoughtful manner, "naturally the line of succession falls to Mystic Misty's daughter."

He cared more about Morgan's implications that he wasn't a good father than who ran a village of quirky spirit mediums. "Franziska has a very good life in Germany," Manfred said curtly.

"With her father who is never home?"

"I need to provide for her," Manfred said, but he knew as well as Morgan did that he had enough money to live comfortably without ever having to work again, and that there was nothing preventing him from practicing law in Germany. He'd never been in Germany for more than a week in the last ten years.

_Manfred still can't move his arm without the pain in his shoulder, but he decides that he should just be satisfied that the bullet wound has not become infected. An infection could spread rapidly, and he was in no mood to appreciate the irony of potentially losing his arm._

He's looking for a German law text on the shelves of his library when he hears a shuffling sound coming from behind him. He turns around to see his two-year-old daughter, Franziska, kicking a heavy book across the floor. Kick. Slide. Kick. Slide.__

"Franziska!" Kick. Slide_. "Cease that. Now!" he orders._

Kick. Slide_. Manfred stands up, and walks in front of Franziska and puts a foot down on the book, lifting Franziska into his arms and ignoring the ache in his shoulder. "Listen to me, child. That book is very expensive. Why, pray tell, are you pushing it along the floor in such a manner?"_

Franziska squirms, and with his arm still in the sling it is impossible to keep a steady hold on her for too long. He lets her down and her gaze drops down to the book. "Read to me, Papa?"

He had been planning to spend the day reading extensively on the finer parts of German law, but he sees his daughter, shiny-eyed with her blue hair falling out of its braid; he cannot resist. It is a good thing that she looks nothing like her mother. He would never be able to care about a child that looked too much like Morgan Fey.

She crawls onto his lap, and Manfred lifts the tome up. It's a struggle to lift it with one hand, and its weight perfectly explains why Franziska had kicked it across the library's floor. Fingers tracing the title, he says, "I'm not sure if you will understand it completely, Franziska. Some of the concepts in this text are very complicated."

She rests her head against his head. "I'll try. I want to be like you. Perfect."

It started to rain then, and Manfred knew that his suit would start to smell badly if it became too wet. Luckily, then Morgan suggested they go inside to have a more civil conversation about what to do with Franziska, instead of arguing in the rain.

What Morgan could do was return his daughter to him, but he still had no idea where Franziska was. It would not do to lose his temper and anger Morgan when she still had the upper hand. He followed her into the village. He wondered why whenever he was with her, he was always following. The only other person in his life he had allowed himself to follow had been Frances.

She didn't lead him to her house on the other end of the village, but rather straight into Fey Manor. The large room, he vaguely remembers, is used for meditation, which supposedly helps focus the mediums' spiritual powers.

He wouldn't believe in all this preposterous spirit channelling nonsense if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, over thirteen years ago.

_It is three months after Manfred has started what can barely be called a relationship with Morgan Fey. He has learnt a lot about her; more than he thought he would ever learn about another woman again in his life. He has learnt how long her hair really was when it was removed from its normal style, seen it fall over her breasts and down past her waist. He has learnt that Morgan and Misty are fraternal twins; Misty is fifteen minutes younger. Morgan tells him that she isn't jealous at all, but he has learnt that she cannot keep the bitterness out of her voice when she says that. ._

_He wants to escape. He wants to leave and never come back, just like he was so close to doing three months previously, but it's as though he's ensnared in the vines of a carnivorous plant; the moment he starts struggling, he knows it will be harder to leave. If he just waits, maybe one day, the Fey sisters will let him go._

_He's thought about Frances a lot in the past few months, and how wonderful it would be just to be able to speak to her again, to try and figure out what exactly what was happening to him. He had always been so in control of everything in his entire life, but now he felt helpless. He couldn't do anything about it, and he hated it. He hated Morgan and Misty, he hated this foolish backwater village, he hated __himself__ for his moment of weakness, at the top of the cliff on New Year's Eve, when he abandoned his perfectly thought out plans to be lead back into the village by Misty Fey._

_It's been so long, and although he hates asking for Misty's help in anything now, although he tells himself that whenever she looks up at him with the remnants of tears in her eyes that it's not his fault, he gives in._

_It's summer now and Morgan's husband is back for a week; Manfred doesn't like the big, angry man with the callous smile. Even though he hates Morgan, Manfred thinks she deserves better. He's looking for Misty and he finds her sitting outside in the sun, her daughter lying at her feet reading a book, and Morgan's daughter, the quiet one, bouncing a ball silently against the wall. Lately he's been feeling lost again—the only place where he knows who he is is the courtroom._

_"Good morning," Misty says demurely, catching the ball as Morgan's daughter throws it in the wrong direction. "I thought you would have been in the city today."_

_"I should be," Manfred replies. He would be if he had a case to prosecute, but there was none today, just an unwelcoming mountain of paperwork that could, although he loathed to do it, be postponed until later. "Actually," he amends, "I will speak to you inside in a few minutes."_

_"All right," Misty agrees, passing the ball back to Morgan's daughter. "We don't need to wait; I'm ready right now." She gathered her robe and stood up, following Manfred into the meditation room._

_Before he has a chance to say anything, Misty is already talking, pretty face pale and eyes swollen red as she lays a hand on Manfred's arm. "I've __missed__ you, Manfred," she sighs, and Manfred tenses. He cannot let himself be lured into another well-planned trap. He knows what he wants and he gets what he wants._

_He brushes Misty's arm away and feels a small sense of triumph at the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. "When I first came here, you told me, '"You know, if you ever want to speak to her again...I'll be able to arrange it for you."'. I want you to challenge Frances for me, Mystic Misty." He curses internally at the use of the title of address. Morgan's mannerisms must be rubbing off on him already._

_Misty crosses her arms over her chest, mulling the thought over. "Are you sure…?" She trails off when she sees the look on Manfred's face._

_"I __am__ ready." There is no time to back down now. He knows that he has to do this, if he ever wants to move on from this wretched place. He wonders if part of him died when Frances did._

_"All right, all right," Misty says with a laugh, although it sounds surprisingly false to Manfred's ears. "I get your point. You're ready; I'm ready. Shall we go into the Channelling Chamber? I'll suspect you'll find that the atmosphere is more suitable in there."_

_He can't see much in the Channelling Chamber apart from the candles scattered around the floor, the dance of the bright flames casting shadows on the wall. Misty breathes in deeply and kneels on the floor; when Manfred doesn't follow, she stares at him expectantly until he sits down too. He hasn't sat on the floor in long time; it's undignified--slovenly__._

_Misty brushes loose strands of hair away from her face; she is breathing heavily. "Are you ready?" Manfred asks dubiously, because Misty doesn't look ready at all._

_"I'm fine," Misty assures him, but he can see a bead of sweat falling from her brow. "It's just warm in here. You do have a photo, I assume?"_

_He takes his wallet out of his pocket. There's a photo in it; not on prominent display like most people had theirs, but hidden, nestled between bank cards. She was around thirty in the photograph, smiling at the camera, a young Lisbeth by her side. He hasn't seen Lisbeth in a while. She looks too much like her mother. He gives the photo to Misty and when she takes it, she stares at it for a few moments, her face paling before saying, "She looks—"_

_"—like you," Manfred finishes for Misty, hoping that she doesn't catch on, hoping that she will never understand._

_She twirls the photograph between her fingers and takes in a deep breath. Within a matter of moments, it's not Misty sitting across from him, but Frances. She looks up from the floor, but it seems as though she cannot meet his eyes. "Manfred."_

_"Frances." They are so close; they should be touching, but they're not._


	12. Reconciliation

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Twelve: Reconciliation**

"_I'm dead, aren't I?" Frances asks, holding her arms up to look at her sleeves. She claps her hands together, not once, but twice, and the sound echoes loudly in the emptiness of the room. She smiles then, and Manfred can feel his hands shake._

"I'm sorry." He never usually apologises for anything, but now he's not even sure what he's apologising for. Sorry for what? Sorry that his wife is dead? Or is he sorry that he's turned his own perfect life into such a complete and utter mess?

"You're not."

What_? He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was…was Frances disagreeing with him? "What, pray tell, do you mean by that?"_

Frances turns, biting her lip. "I remember death." Manfred can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He's still not sure if dead people are meant to be able to talk from beyond the grave. "I do not, however, remember you being there, Manfred."

He takes a deep breath. Does he tell the truth? "I didn't want to see you—"

"Exactly," Frances interrupts, bringing a finger to his lips to quiet him. Her hands are cold, and he recoils from the unwanted contact. "You didn't want to see me; you didn't want to see your perfect_ wife, sick and broken, you didn't want to sit by her bedside and take care of her as she was fighting for her life. Instead, you were only interested in your own career. You couldn't ever stand to be around people who didn't fit your vision of perfection, could you, Manfred?"_

He is so angry now. Why does Frances have to say these sort of things to him after he has been mourning her death for all these months? "A von Karma who is not perfect," he hisses, "has no right to call themselves a von Karma at all."

Frances crosses her arms across her body. "I see. Does that explain why you didn't even want to spend time with your daughter after she lost interest in becoming a lawyer? Lisbeth was never anything but perfect, and you know it."

"I could not teach her law if she was not interested," Manfred says. "After that, there was no reason to spend vast quantities of time with her."

"Which is why you started to mentor Lucia, wasn't it, Manfred? Lisbeth loved you; she wanted to spend time with you, her father, but instead, you took her best friend to America to become a prosecutor."

"Lucia Gavin," Manfred says, his hands gripping his sleeves tightly now, "is now one of Germany's most well-respected prosecutors."

"I must admit that I'm surprised that she turned out so well, considering what happened to your previous student." It is only then that Frances manages to look at him, and he almost wishes that she hadn't. He had expected to see anger. He hadn't expected to see pain.

"He was a slow learner and could not keep up with my rigorous pace of teaching," he answered, knowing that Frances will hate the answer. It doesn't matter anymore, because now he knows she hates him anyway.

_Frances gets to her feet then, and Manfred follows suit, not wanting to see his dead wife towering over him. "You didn't have to shatter his _dreams_, Manfred. He really admired you."_

"I do not see any point in taking hopeless cases."

"Hopeless_?" Frances hisses. He has definitely angered her now. "Gregory is now quite a successful defense attorney. I've even heard that he's been making himself…a few dangerous enemies." It's just like when they were younger. Frances is one of the few people who can read him like a book._

"There is no such thing," Manfred says frostily, "as a successful defense attorney. They are all failures. Every single one of them. None of them could even dream of having what I have achieved—over twenty years of perfection_."_

"Manfred, honey?" Frances had given up on the terms of endearments a long time ago, like any sensible person addressing Manfred von Karma would. But now her tone was patronizing. "You're not perfect either. After all, perfect_ husbands don't leave their dying wives languishing on other continents."_

Manfred cringes and the small smile that has started to form on Frances's face only gets wider.

"I didn't think you were the type to believe in spirits or souls. In fact, I don't think that I would be here talking to you after my death if you didn't need to ask me something, if you didn't need my advice. So what is it, Manfred? What is it that the perfect_ Manfred von Karma needs help with?"_

He doesn't want Frances's help anymore. Like a fool, he had hoped and dreamt of a great reconciliation, where he would be able to relay his hopes and fears to the only person he had ever trusted. Frances has betrayed that trust. Now, the only person he can trust is himself.

"I," he starts, his hands are now shaking so hard he hides them in his pockets, but it's futile, as he knows that Frances can already tell how scared he is. "I don't need your help." He wants to rage. He wants to scream and shout and bang his head against the wall, but he keeps up the usual, perfect calm façade.

"You should let me." Her face softens for a moment, and Manfred remembers the woman he fell in love with over twenty years ago. The only woman he ever loved. The only woman he still loves. He could never keep anything from her; he had stopped trying a long time ago. It's ironic that one of the things he loves most about her is the sweet and innocent façade she fooled most people with. He had truly been one of the only people who had seen the cunning behind the eyes of the pretty face. At the core, she's a manipulator: just like him. But whereas Manfred plays with people's minds, Frances plays with people's hearts. "You don't need to be perfect all the time, Manfred. Most people aren't. Even I wasn't in the end; I could not fight the disease." Again, for another brief moment, she stares at her arms, flexing the fingers as she does so. "You're right, however. A von Karma is to be perfect in every way, and a von Karma that is not perfect has no right to call themselves a von Karma at all. Where does that leave you, honey?"

In a way, he has received an answer to his question without ever asking it: however, it's not an answer that he cares to hear. "I have nothing more to say to you."

"Then I only have one last thing to say to you," Frances tells Manfred, laying a hand softly on his shoulder, and he's riveted to the spot; he cannot run away, not now. Her eyes are gentler; no longer hurt or angry but…pitiful. Manfred's not sure if he wants his dead wife's pity. "You may not be perfect. However, that's what makes you human."

The answer! There is the answer he has been looking for! If he is to be perfect; he cannot afford_ to be human. He must learn to control these wretched emotions of him; keep an even tighter leash on them than he has in the past. For now, however, he allows himself one last moment of weakness. He grabs Frances shoulders and barely notices her eyes shut before he lays his lips softly on her forehead._

He feels her shoulders shrink slightly under his hands, but he doesn't think anything of it as he whispers, "Thank you."

He only realises that she's not there any more when it's Misty's voice that answers. "I-I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, backing away from Manfred, "I couldn't hold onto her for too much longer. I can try again, if you like?"

Manfred is thankful that Misty doesn't ask about the kiss. He wonders when, exactly, Frances left.

"No, thank you," he says coldly. "Our conversation is over."

"Oh!" Misty looks slightly relieved. "That's probably why she left, then."

Manfred's lips thin. "Probably_."_


	13. Consequences

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Thirteen: Consequences**

If Manfred had learnt anything about spirit-channelling back then, it was that the deceased often said things that they refrained from saying when they were still alive. He wondered if it was death itself that gave them that sort of freedom, or if it was that they no longer had to deal with the consequences of their words and actions.

There were two children in the meditation room. They did not look familiar, but then again it had been nearly thirteen years since he had last set foot in this place, and the brown-haired girl couldn't be any older than two. Manfred could see that her hand-eye co-ordination skills were still developing as the older girl tried to throw the two-year-old a ball, while talking at an obnoxiously fast pace. "Then, at the very end, they threw a _huge_ party to thank him for saving the princess! Imagine all the food; I'm hungry now! Did you like that story, Pearly? Samurais always find their true loves in the end!"

'Pearly' clapped her hands enthusiastically. "Sam-you-why!"

Morgan walked over to the children, but Manfred stayed put, watching them from afar. Were these two girls Morgan's children as well? He saw Morgan pick up the younger child; the ball dropping to the floor.

"Is it Pearly's bedtime, Aunt Morgan?" the older girl asked. So this girl, at the very least, was not Morgan's daughter. _Aunt_…did that mean that this girl was _Misty's_ daughter? He shook his head. He had stopped caring about this insignificant little village a long time ago. Why should he care whose daughter was whose?

"It is indeed, Mystic Maya. In fact, it is far past both of your bedtimes. You yourself should be sleeping soon. We will be having a busy day of training tomorrow."

The girl called Maya nodded eagerly and then paused for thought. "Can I read her a bedtime story? Please, Aunt Morgan?"

Morgan sighed. "You may, Mystic Maya, but it should not be a long one. You should ask her father first as well; he's resting at the house and may not want to be disturbed by your shrill voice." She stroked Pearly's hair away from her face and Manfred was surprised to see that the look on Morgan's face was almost tender. Was this Pearly girl Morgan's daughter then? It was hard to think that Morgan would care about any child in such a way, as he had seen how she had treated her other daughters in the past.

"Don't worry," Maya said, bouncing to her feet, "I'll be sure to ask for Uncle Peter for permission first. He always smiles so nicely when I talk politely!" Pearly was rubbing her eyes blearily by that point, and starting to get cranky, wriggling around in her mother's arms. Carefully, Morgan passed the girl back to Maya who seemed to have trouble holding onto the squirming two-year old. "Oof!"

He didn't say anything until the two girls had left the room and Morgan turned back to him, straightening the creases out of her robe lightly with her hands. "That was Mystic Maya, Mystic Misty's daughter. I have brought her up ever since her mother left this village ten years ago. As a member of the branch family, it is my duty to serve the members of the main family. Mystic Maya has no parents left therefore it is my responsibility to take care of her. The other girl is my daughter, Pearl. She is bright for her age and will have great potential as she grows older." Manfred noticed that Morgan didn't say potential for _what_.

The Maya girl had to be around the same age as Franziska. _The bay haler's chains are still moving as it falls, and Jack Fey's sleeve gets snagged on them. There is blood, and it is everywhere._ Manfred wondered momentarily if it was his fault that this girl had no parents, but then he remembered that both Jack and Misty Fey reaped only the natural consequences of their actions, and this girl was just an unfortunate third party to the entire affair, much like her older sister had been.

He didn't care to hear about Morgan's new relatives, though. There ought to be only one person on his mind right now, and that person was Franziska. He had taken care of Franziska for her entire life; to make sure that she never got involved with the politics of the Fey family; to make sure that she was nothing but the perfect daughter growing up in the perfect family. Franziska was the last person in the world he allowed himself to care for the tiniest bit in a time when everyone else he met was a fool or a manipulator. Franziska was neither of these. She was just his daughter.

"I hope you have not forgotten what we have been talking about, Morgan Fey." He almost felt his skin grow warmer where he was hiding the gun. He could not take it out now, however. He had promised himself, thirteen years ago, that he had to control his temper. Then, and only then, could he claim to be completely perfect. Then was the only time he could truly live up to his own name.

"You want to see my daughter, correct?" Morgan asked. How did she know that the words would infuriate him? Did she see it as a challenge to make him break the promise he had made himself? "I do not see why I should let you. You might take her away again."

Might? Once Franziska was safe in his arms once more, he most certainly would take her back to Germany as soon as he could and never let her set foot in this blasted country again. The temptation to pull the gun out and just damn the consequences grew stronger, but perfect people did not act on such foolish impulses.

He wondered if he could make an exception for his daughter. His hand wandered to the pocket where the gun was. The metal felt cool underneath his skin. He remembered the last time he had pointed a gun at someone. _Gregory Edgeworth is slumped over in the corner of the elevator and there is no-one to save him, no-one there to witness Manfred squeeze the trigger_.

He had been so angry that day. The courtroom had been the only safe place left, the only place where he had known how to maintain his perfection, and that man, that _Gregory Edgeworth_ had possessed the gall to try and tarnish his perfect reputation. Frances had always believed in Gregory's potential, and Manfred, like a fool, had overlooked it. Then there had been the bullet wound; it had been so hard to be rational with all the blood streaming from his shoulder.

Manfred and Morgan were the only ones in the room now the children were gone, and there was no-one around to see him; no-one around to see how badly he was going to lose his temper. He had spent his whole life trying to protect Franziska from her mother. It startled him when he realised that he had not only failed his own perfectly achievable goals, but he had also failed Franziska as well. He was her father. He was meant to be able to protect her. He was already a failure; already so far away from his dream of perfection. He cared too much about his daughter.

He was alone in the room with Morgan. He couldn't just stand here and talk around in circles. It was those simple facts that cemented his next action in his mind.

With one fluid motion, he pulled the gun out of his suit jacket's pocket, pointing it directly at Morgan's face. She flinched; it was the first time he had ever managed to get a reaction out of her. For once, she had not seen this coming. He walked backwards, towards the main entrance of the meditation room. The door was wide open like it usually was; the faint smell of smoke wafted into the room and Manfred took advantage of Morgan's momentary stunned silence to shut the heavy door and bolt it closed.

No-one would be walking in on them now. There were only two other entrances to the meditation room: the entrance the led to the winding pathway was always kept locked at night, Manfred knew, but he gave it a cursory glance just to make sure. The only other door led to the Channelling Chamber, and to enter the chamber, one needed the key.

"Manfred von Karma." Morgan had recovered from her initial shock, her eyes cold and calculating.

Manfred slowly flicked the gun's safety switch. "Give me back my daughter." He could feel his palm sweating. Would he actually shoot the gun? His finger wrapped dangerously around the trigger.

A small smile formed on Morgan's face. Manfred wasn't sure if he liked that smile. "You think you can threaten me, good sir? You always seem to make your worst mistakes when you're angry. Perfection means having complete and utter control, after all." He cannot help but feel that she is mocking him with those words.

"Do not delude yourself for a moment that I do not know what I am doing."

Morgan laughed then, bringing a sleeve to her mouth to stifle the laughter. "I am sure that a man as intelligent as you, Manfred von Karma, would know that waving a gun around is not going to achieve anything. Why, I believe you didn't intend to bring the gun for this purpose at all. It is just another 'foolish impulse', as you would say. After all, if memory serves correctly, you always preferred stun guns to the real thing, didn't you? Law school doesn't teach you how to shoot a real weapon, Manfred."

His arms were shaking now; he moved his fingers away from the trigger in fear of setting the damn thing off accidentally. "You seem very confident for a defenseless woman facing down the barrel of a gun."

"Because I know that you will not do anything. There is no way you can commit a crime here without getting caught. You do not know this village as well as I do, Manfred, and someone will alert the authorities before you are able to escape. Then what will happen to your poor, precious Franziska when her Papa's incarcerated? She'll be brought up with her mother's family: just like she was always meant to be."

He had worked so hard in the pursuit of ultimate control, but it _really_ had all been futile. He saw red now. If he was being sensible, he would put the gun away and take out his stun gun—knock Morgan unconscious while he searched the rest of the village for his daughter. His mind, however, had emptied of most of its sensibilities at the sight of Morgan Fey. Breathing heavily, he responded, "It will take a long time to report any potential 'incident' to the authorities as any supposed witnesses would have to use the telephone at the front of the village to report any such incident to the authorities. Even _my_ cell phone doesn't have signal in this dumpster."

Morgan's face twisted for a moment: Manfred knew that despite the fact that the village had favoured her sister over her, Morgan was still extremely proud of Kurain. Then she replied, "Knowing as I do that this sort of confrontation was entirely unplanned, I would not be entirely surprised if that weapon wasn't even loaded."

Manfred smiled then. Morgan thought that she was calling his bluff, but she was very wrong indeed. He hadn't merely snapped this gun up in a fit of anger before rushing to Kurain Village. He had been preparing it for the court case the day after tomorrow, and he knew that it was fully loaded. Morgan had made an assumption that for once, was incorrect. It would cost her dearly. "I'm not playing games, Morgan Fey. You will bring my daughter to me at once, or it will be you, and only you, who will be fully responsible for the consequences of your actions."

"Your daughter…" Morgan paused and Manfred could feel trepidation growing in his the pit of his stomach before reminding himself that _he_ was the one in control; that _he_ was the one with the gun. "Your daughter would be better off without you."

It was that final declaration that caused him to lose his temper entirely. Franziska was the only one who mattered anymore. How did Morgan _dare_ make such an audacious statement?

He didn't even aim the gun before firing blindly, forgetting that the last time he had shot a gun at someone, they had already been unconscious. The bullet flew through the air, missing Morgan by more than two feet. The sound rang in his ears, but he had been expecting that.

What he had not been expecting, however, was the recoil. Guns had recoil; common sense told him that, but this was only a handgun. Had there been this sort of recoil last time? He honestly couldn't remember. The force of the gun's recoil caused it to fall to his feet with a clatter. After a brief moment of shock, he bent down to pick it up again, but he was too late.

Morgan had taken advantage of his brief moment of weakness and had dived forward to retrieve the gun before he had been able to. Now it was she who was pointing the gun at him. "What a pity," Morgan sighed as she straightened herself. "Manfred von Karma is not the perfect marksman."

He was not defenseless, however. He still had his stun gun, but the problem in this situation was that it was a close-quarters weapon and Morgan had the advantage of shooting from a larger distance.

"Do you know what I did learn, growing up in this 'dumpster' as you seem to be fond of calling it, good sir? While my mother was busy teaching my younger sister and my female cousins from the branch family how to become perfect spirit mediums, I was left with the men; I was taught to farm and I was taught to hunt in the hopes that even despite my lack of power, I would still be able to make some sort of worthwhile contribution to the village. And as Fate would have it, I am left with all the responsibilities of running Kurain, and none of the honour. This doesn't mean I forgot the things I learnt as a child."

Manfred could not remember being more scared in his entire life; but he certainly was not going to give Morgan the satisfaction of knowing that. He wondered what it would be like to die. He was never a religious man; he sent his children to church to keep up appearances in the local community back at home. However, he was starting to believe in karma. He had abducted his daughter. Now his daughter's mother had taken her back. He had shot a man. Now, he was about to be shot _at_. If he had just allowed Morgan to believe there were no shots in the gun…he was a complete and utter fool.

"I learnt how to shoot a gun. This is a handgun, _Prosecutor_ von Karma, and I am making the assumption that you pilfered it from the evidence room. Although it was used in a murder case, this brand of guns is notoriously bad for self-defense; it's usually used for hunting." Her eyes left Manfred for a moment as she lifted the gun to the light, momentarily distracted.

He saw it as his chance. The other pocket of his suit jacket contained the stun gun. Damn the consequences, damn _everything_ he thought as he held the stun gun aloft and lunged at Morgan.

_BANG._ Morgan had shot the gun. _Morgan had shot the gun._ He didn't see the bullet at first, but moments later he knew what had happened: the metal burrowing into his skin, the screams of his own voice and the _pain_. He struggled to move his hand to the point of impact as black dots danced in his vision. Was it his imagination or was the material around his right leg damp? He looked at his fingers. Blood.

The initial shock was starting to wear off and he could feel his injured leg almost collapse beneath him. He wouldn't lose control of such a basic ability such as standing in front of Morgan, but he couldn't stop himself. He fell to his knees. "Morgan…Fey…" It was hard to hear his own voice; the bang was still ringing in his ears. Morgan just smiled, admiring the gun in her hands for a few moments before wiping it carefully with her robe and tucking it into her pocket.

Then there was a crashing sound; it did not seem that loud compared to the gunshot he was still hearing, but he wondered where it had come from all the same. He saw Morgan's body twist in the direction of the entrance to the Channelling Chamber and she let out a gasp of surprise, which she quickly stifled with her sleeve.

The door to the Channelling Chamber now lay collapsed on the floor of the Meditation Room.


	14. Confusion After Death

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Fourteen: Confusion After Death **

Although Manfred's vision still felt somewhat distorted after his injury, he could not miss what happened next. Two people picked themselves up from the ground of the Meditation Room, dusting off their clothes. The first one was Misty's daughter—so that was where the girl had disappeared to.

The second person, this one a man, seemed somewhat familiar. His blue hair seemed somewhat reminiscent of Franziska's, but he was sure he had seen that face before. The man was wearing a dress, which was odd, to say the least, but this was a village of _spirit mediums_…

Spirit mediums. _Spirit mediums._ He had spent most of his life trying to forget that Franziska was Morgan Fey's daughter, so he had never thought of the possible implications. He had always assumed that because Morgan had not possessed the powers that Misty had, any children of Morgan's would not be able to commune with the dead. But what if Franziska…what if his daughter was…?

Then the man smiled, and the final piece of evidence fell into place. He would remember that cocky smile anywhere—it haunted some of his dreams, even. _Gregory Edgeworth_. It was too much to handle. What on earth was going on here? He needed more time to think; he had been shot because he had acted rashly like a fool. Unfortunately, more time was not something that he had. It was all too much of a shock; the dark spots in his vision started to expand and he saw nothing at all.

* * *

Gregory's arms ached from the run-in with the door, but he and Misty's daughter had succeeded in their goal. They were out of the room now, the door lying in tatters on the floor. He hadn't known what to expect when he came running into this new room—he had never believed that anything could be more confusing than life itself, but it seemed as though death had the potential to be. Why was he here? Why had von Karma's daughter channelled him? Why did a daughter of von Karma's _have_ spirit channelling powers at all?

There was a woman kneeling on the floor; Gregory could see that her face was pale and drawn. Next to her lay a body, and as Gregory crept closer, he could see that it was just not _any_ body, but _Manfred von Karma_ lying still on the floorboards, blood seeping slowly from a wound in his leg. Gregory saw von Karma's eyes flicker for the barest of moments, and Gregory smiled. _Not perfect in every way now, are we, Manfred?_

Von Karma's eyes closed, and the woman stood up as she surveyed Gregory curiously. However, it was not the woman who spoke next. Instead, Misty's daughter demanded, "Where's Maya, Aunt Morgan?" He could see her brow furrowed in concentration, but he also noticed her trembling knees and the way her feet were wobbling in her high heels. "Where is she?"

Morgan seemed almost too calm, considering there was a bleeding man lying on the floor. "Relax, Mystic Mia, and everything shall be taken care of. Mystic Maya has just taken Mystic Pearl home, or have you not noticed the time?

"I've been in the channelling chamber," Mia said bluntly. "Just like you asked me to, Aunt Morgan. I've done everything you've told me to…but this…this has gone far enough. I'm going to find Maya, and I'm going to take her very far away from here. Knowing what you've done makes me feel physically ill, and I cannot condone your actions any longer. I…" she trailed off, eyes skirting down to von Karma's body where it lay on the floor. "I just wish I knew why everything came down to this." She was holding her muffler loosely in one hand, and as she turned to leave, she wrapped it back around her neck.

"Mystic Mia," Morgan said, but Mia didn't turn around, her fingers already busily undoing the bolt at the door, "you are throwing your useless accusations at the wrong person. If you want to know the truth about everything that has really transpired…"

Mia's fingers slipped for the barest of seconds.

"…I would perhaps suggest that the best person to ask would be your own mother: Mystic Misty."

The door slammed louder than necessary, and Mia was gone. Gregory could not help but feel he was intruding in some sort of private family drama.

"So, Gregory Edgeworth," Morgan said, and Gregory started. How did this woman know his name? "It's been a long time; I doubt you would remember who I am."

Was she someone he had known before he died? He really didn't think she was—he was certain that sort of hair would be hard to forget—of course, she could have had completely different hair twenty years ago…

Morgan interrupted his thoughts. "Although I do think that you would know of my sister, Mystic Misty?"

So, this woman was Misty's sister. He failed to see how that explained anything, considering he only knew who Misty was because the police had used her as a spirit medium when they had needed help figuring out the truth behind the DL-6 incident, truth they had been unable to uncover. Gregory had perhaps been a little idealistic about the whole 'death' situation but even now he was not completely certain about who had really shot him.

"I suppose that in your current state, it would be impossible for you to follow the events of the physical plane, meaning that you do not know what affect your inaccurate testimony has had on our village." Morgan was leaning over him now, a dangerous sort of fire burning behind her eyes. "Mystic Misty was forced to leave the village in shame. They called her a fraud."

Gregory lowered his head. "I'm sorry."

Morgan's gaze followed Gregory's head, and he shifted uncomfortably as she replied shortly. "Don't be."

He didn't know what else he could say, after all, they should have just let him rest in peace; he didn't have any 'unfinished business' tying him to the mortal realm: yes, he had missed out on watching his son grow up, but he had the unsustainable feeling that although he had not been around, his son had been brought up by a loving family—well, at the very least, a loving sister.

He shook his head. He wasn't even sure where he was getting these feelings from; but why did he think that he had met Miles's sister at some point during his life?

His mind provided unhelpful images of a skinny, lithe girl, blue hair sticking to the sides of her face as sweat and tears tracked a path down his cheeks. _Miles's sister: he had to protect her._ What an odd thing to think about a girl he had never met.

Death definitely _was_ confusing. If he was going to be here, he might as well figure out what was going on. "So, Morgan, was it?" he said good-naturedly, although he wondered how seriously anyone was going to take him when he was wearing a short dress, "I wanted to know—how do you know Prosecutor von Karma?" His gaze travelled to where the legendary prosecutor was still lying on the floor. "And his daughter?"

Gregory got the instantaneous feeling that this was entirely the wrong question to ask. "Your interest in the matter is unnecessary, Gregory Edgeworth. The situation is fully under control."

The body on the floor and Morgan's intense stare were not exactly hallmarks of a situation under control, but Gregory supposed that being dead, he wasn't in exactly much position to argue.

_"Who are you?" the blue-haired girl asks, kneeling on top of the sheets of her bed._

Gregory smiles, pauses to answer, and feels the bullet fly out of his heart.

Gregory shook his head again, trying to clear the images he did not remember out of his mind. He wiped his forehead, shifting his blue fringe out of his eyes. Wait—blue? He never had blue hair, but Prosecutor von Karma did—although now, von Karma's hair was almost white with age.

Wait—this girl, this girl who he felt had some sort of sisterly bond with his son—was this girl _Prosecutor von Karma's daughter?_ His son…what had von Karma done with his son? His stomach churned at the thought of von Karma having any sort of contact with his son at all, and Gregory wondered why von Karma would want to—after all, despite all his sister's influences, von Karma had given up on Gregory, hadn't he? He had shattered Gregory's dreams of becoming a prosecutor, so Gregory had become a defense attorney instead.

Even though after his sister's death there was nothing linking Gregory and von Karma bar Gregory's niece, Lisbeth, who he barely ever spoke to, Gregory had remained obsessed with von Karma. He had to know why the prosecutor had given up on him, all those years ago. Now that Gregory was dead, he doubted he ever would. He wondered if Morgan knew—after all, there had to be some sort of _reason_ why von Karma was lying unconscious on _her_ floor, but maybe the reasons were unrelated and he was grasping at straws.

_Where is Miles now?_ The thought strayed errantly across his mind, but the only answer he could think of was _not in this room_. He highly doubted that he'd be allowed out of the room, and besides, he would not know what to do here. Where was his son? Why was von Karma here? Why was he, Gregory, here?

Gregory Edgeworth was just very confused.

* * *


	15. Fire at the Old House

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Fifteen: Fire at the Old House **

The rain fell softly and the faint scent of smoke was in the air as Mia walked briskly down the village's main path, stopping for nothing. Was the dampness of her cheeks caused by the sky or her tears? She wasn't sure anymore, but she tried to stop crying. She was stronger than this—she knew it, but at that moment, she didn't feel it.

_The best person to ask would be your own mother._ Aunt Morgan had told her that, and Mia agreed. Mother was the only one able to answer all of Mia's questions, but Mother wasn't around to ask, was she? Aunt Morgan kept her own secrets locked down tighter than anyone Mia had met in her entire life, and Mia felt that even if Aunt Morgan did know all the answers, she wouldn't tell her anyway.

She had only done what Aunt Morgan had asked of her, hoping that if she went along with the plans, even though her misgivings kept growing, she would be given a clue, a hint, _anything_. It had been naïve to hope; trying to discover the truth about her family past was impossible…so why couldn't she stop hoping?

The smoky smell wasn't going away.

Mia had to find Maya and take her away from the village, even just for a little while, until she figured out what to do next. Morgan had moved out of her old house after her relationship with the twins' father had crumbled, but the house she had moved into when she married Uncle Peter was only a few hundred meters closer to Fey Manor than the old house was.

As Mia walked down the hill, it was easier to distinguish the plume of rising smoke from the rainclouds. _What on Earth…_.

She ran down faster now, heels slipping in the muddy ground as she drew closer and closer to Aunt Morgan's old house, which was surrounded by flames.

"Mystic Mia!" She was startled by the call of her name, and as she rounded the corner, she saw Uncle Peter, Pearly's father, holding his crying daughter as he stared at the burning house. "I had to get out," Uncle Peter said, wiping his profusely sweating forehead, "I feared the fire would spread; it could have done so faster if it had not been raining like this. I was going to tell Morgan; she will know what to do."

She acknowledged Uncle Peter's statement numbly. Yes, the house was indeed on fire. Pearly started crying louder, small fists beating at Uncle Peter's shoulder. He stroked her hair softly, pressing a tender kiss to her round little cheek. With a sudden clarity, Mia remembered who she had come here to find. Maya had brought Pearly home, hadn't she? Then where was Maya now?

"Uncle Peter," Mia started, breath hitching in her throat, "Where's…where's Maya?" She did not have a good feeling at about this. If Maya had been with Uncle Peter, then she should be standing out here with him and Pearly. She hoped fervently hoped the answer would be 'going home', but then she would have seen her on the way here.

A knot tightened somewhere in her lower stomach.

Uncle Peter's hands froze on Pearly's hair for just a little too long before replying. "Gracious, Mystic Mia, I haven't seen that girl all day. I'm sure I would have heard her if she had come to this side of the village—I'm _kidding_, Mystic Mia…you don't look well at all. What's wrong?"

Mia hated the way Uncle Peter talked about her sister. Sure, Maya could be annoying sometimes, and quite loud, but she _was_ only a twelve-year-old.

_The same age as Franziska von Karma. _

For the second time that day, she felt like throwing up. But even if she could, she would never be able to get rid of the guilt. It reaffirmed the fact that Mia _had_ to get her sister out of here. She wouldn't want Maya to ever have to do anything like this, just to protect the people she loved. That was why she had done it, wasn't it? To protect Maya? …to protect Maya's innocence, but destroy another child's? Mia was the very worst kind of person. Maybe it was like Franziska had said: good people didn't _do_ bad things. It only took one crime to put someone away for life…

She closed her eyes, remembering the judge who often presided over the trials she attended with Mr Grossberg. _'Mia Fey, I pronounce you guilty, guilty, guilty!'_ Each guilty was punctuated by a slam of the gavel.

Her fingers plucked her badge—the very same one she had just received the day before—off her lapel. She didn't deserve it; she didn't deserve to stand in court and defend strangers, when she couldn't even protect her sister. She slipped it into her pocket. She would have to redeem herself before she allowed herself to wear it again.

"I have to find Maya," she insisted, and Uncle Peter took a step forward, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"I will go to inform Morgan about the fire. I wish you the best of luck finding Mystic Maya," he said sincerely. Almost _too_ sincerely. Mia found herself wishing he hadn't used the word 'luck'. She wasn't going to leave her sister's fate up to Lady Luck.

She took a step closer to the house; it was warmer here. "Maya?" she called out cautiously. "Can you hear me?" She wasn't sure if she wanted a reply or not; if Maya didn't answer, maybe she had just taken the scenic route home. Alternatively, she could be in the fire, too far away for Mia to be heard.

Mia's heart thumped painfully in her chest. "Maya!" Was it her imagination, or was it getting harder to breathe?

"…Sis…" The reply was faint, but Mia still heard it. "…Mia!" Maya's voice was getting louder now, thank Mystic Ami, her sister was _safe_. But why hadn't Uncle Peter seen her? Permission or not, Maya never neglected the opportunity to tell Pearly a bedtime story, and Uncle Peter was right: Maya was loud; if she had been there, he would have certainly noticed.

But why Uncle Peter hadn't noticed Maya didn't matter; she had to find where Maya was _now_. "Maya?" she called, tentatively drawing herself closer to the fire.

"Mia." Maya crawled out from behind a nearby tree, and Mia felt her body flood with relief, but it was only temporary and fled the moment she saw the tears welling in the corners of Maya's eyes. "I was so scared…I thought…I thought I was going to be trapped in there."

"In the _house_?" Mia's eyebrows rose. "What were you doing in there, Maya?"

Maya tensed. "I…Sis…I was just playing."

Mia did her best to hide her confusion, and wrapped her arms around her sister in what she hoped was a supportive, yet chilly, hug. After all, they were both soaked from standing out in the rain. "Playing? Here?" In Aunt Morgan's old house? It seemed like an odd place for Maya to go to.

Maya hesitated for a moment. "Uncle Peter told me to go here," she answered, before clapping a hand over her mouth.

There was something very, very wrong here. Maya wouldn't lie for no reason. Mia tucked her sister's hair behind her ears, before whispering quietly, "He told me you didn't see you tonight." Someone wasn't telling the truth, but what was the point? It made no sense.

"He said that I should read Pearly a new book, but he said it was here, so he told me to go get it for him."

The hairs on Mia's arm stood up on end. Uncle Peter had denied seeing Maya at all, but now Maya was saying that he had sent her to this house—this house which had later caught fire, despite no-one ever using it anymore. It couldn't be a coincidence.

Uncle Peter, for some unfathomable reason, was trying to kill Maya.

Maya wriggled from Mia's grip, soft hands straying to the sides of her face, brushing Mia's tears away. "Don't cry, Sis, I'm all right."

"Don't you see how close you were? Follow me, Maya, we have to get away from here. But listen closely." She held her sister's hand and led her away from the flames.

"I smelt the smoke as soon as I climbed in the window," Maya offered, fingers intertwining with Mia's.

"What?" Mia spluttered. This was bringing up too many bad memories—too many things that should have been left behind in the past. Then again, wasn't there a saying about those who forgot the past being doomed to repeat it?

"The door was locked and there was no key!" Maya said defensively. "I've been learning how to pick locks, just in case…" Maya smiled for a brief moment, but as she looked at her sister, the smile disappeared. "…but I wasn't good enough yet," she added hastily.

Mia rubbed her temples. Lecturing her sister about her less-than-scrupulous habits could wait until a later time, when they were both safe and free from Kurain. They were walking quickly, Maya struggling to keep up with Mia's brisk pace. "Did you find the book?"

"No—there were no books in the house that I could see." Maya looked up at Mia, biting her lip as she did so. "I tried to get out when I smelt the smoke—I could tell something bad was happening. But I went out a different way, I got lost, it was so dark, I was so _scared_, Sis. I'm glad you found me."

Mia stopped then; they were halfway between Morgan's house and Fey Manor now, standing still outside a small storage shed. "I'm glad too. Can I ask you to do something for me, Maya?"

Maya fidgeted momentarily, smoothing the creases out of her clothes. "Of course, Sis. Anything you want."

"Stay here," Mia directed, holding her sister's shoulder while she opened the door to shed and led her inside. "Stay here until it's safe and I come back for you."

"It's dark in here, Mia. I don't _like_ it." It was indeed dark, and Mia's fingers fumbled for the light switch, flicking it on so the dingy lamp illuminated the room. It was filled with scrolls and mats mostly, although a spade and a box of matches lay abandoned in the corner.

"See?" Mia chuckled, although there was really nothing amusing about anything that was going on. "It's not scary at all, Maya." Sure, there were cobwebs on the ceiling, and there could be any number of bugs and spiders just waiting to jump out on her little sister…_Stop thinking, Mia._

Maya nodded numbly, tears welling up in her eyes again. "Where are you going to go, Sis?"

"What do you mean?" Mia asked, covering her nose. This storage shed hadn't been used for a while, and nearly everything in it was coasted in layers of dust."

"You're leaving me here until it's 'safe'. Are you going to do something dangerous? Please," she begged, hands gripping at the front of Mia's jacket, "please don't."

Mia drew Maya closer, hugging her again. Their clothes were still damp and they were both crying. What could Mia say? She couldn't tell Maya what was happening, she just _couldn't_. "I love you."

Maya's tears streamed down her face, and her arms tightened around Mia's waist. "Please don't say that, Mia. It makes it sound like you're going away forever. You just came back."

Her hand played with Maya's hair again, stroking and soothing. Her sister was so young, so innocent, that it almost made Mia jealous. She had been barely ten when her mother had asked her to kidnap Franziska. "Sometimes adults have to do things they that they rather wouldn't do." Her own mother had told her that, over twelve years ago. Only now was she starting to understand what the words actually meant.

Loosening her grip on Mia's clothes, Maya dabbed at her eyes, trying to wipe away her tears. "I think I get it, Sis. I just…I just don't think I ever want to be an adult."

Sometimes Mia wished she wasn't an adult either, life had been easier back when she was younger, it was easier to overlook the odd behaviour of her family and just enjoy the days that passed. But now, as an adult, she had the power to change things, to make sure that her sister's childhood wasn't like her own, and with that power came responsibility. "You'll be an adult someday, Maya," she acknowledged, "and you'll be a great master of the Kurain channelling technique." Why did Mia keep stealing her mother's words? She wasn't asking Maya to do anything drastic; she was just trying to ensure her sister's safety. "But for now, just enjoy your childhood: your spirit-channelling training, playing games with Pearly, you know, all the things you might not be able to do, once you grow up."

Maya nodded again, eyes thoughtful. "But aren't you going to be the Master, someday, Sis?" she asked, cocking her head.

Her attorney's badge felt heavy in her pocket. Mia slipped her hand in and felt the cool, metallic object. She held it out and passed it to Maya, whose eyes widened. "I'm a defense attorney, Maya," she explained. "That's all I ever want to be."

Mia wasn't sure if Maya understood the real reason: she didn't want Maya to feel like they were competing for some sort of title; she didn't want the relationship between her sister and herself to deteriorate like the relationship between her mother and Aunt Morgan had. They had been good friends once, if Mia thought really hard about it. Life had been perfect, really, until her grandmother's death: after that, strange things had started happening. Her father had died, and then, two years later, her mother had disappeared…

Maya looked at Mia's badge; it glinted strangely in the dim light. "Why are you giving this to me?"

"I can't be a lawyer without it. That means I have to come back for you, do you get it? I promise I won't leave you here."

Fingers curling around the badge, Maya looked at her sister. Mia wondered why Maya looked so _hurt_. "Are you coming back for _me,_ Sis, or are you coming back for this?" she asked, holding the badge up to Mia.

Seeing where her sister had drawn the misunderstanding from—yes, Mia certainly _was_ proud of her badge—she hastened her to correct it. "No, I'm coming back for you, Maya. The badge's just a promise to make sure that I will."

But the correction didn't stop Maya from handing it back. "Then you'll come back anyway, badge or not."

Mia accepted the badge numbly, then placed it back into her pocket. "All right. I'll do what I have to do, then I'll come back for you. Then we'll go somewhere, for a little while, you can stay with me." She turned to the door after Maya nodded, pushing it open and immediately had rain fall on her face.

"Sis?" Maya asked, and Mia turned. Maya bit her lip thoughtfully before continuing. "Once you get me out of here—can you show me the place where you got those burgers from? They were really tasty."

It was enough to make Mia start crying again, and run back inside to briefly kiss Maya on the forehead. "I promise," she whispered. "Anything, for my little sister." She smiled, but even she could sense that the smile was crooked, and Maya was no fool. Mia knew that she could see it too.

"Then I'll stay here," Maya affirmed, pulling up one of the mats and crawling underneath it. Mia momentarily noticed the goosebumps rising on her sister's arms; it was becoming chilly, it was always cooler up here in the mountains than it was in the city. "Because I know you'll come back. You won't leave me behind like Mom did."

Mia paused for a moment, before kneeling down and tucking the mat around her sister. Maya had never known her father, and her mother had left the village when she was two. Maybe Maya wasn't as innocent as Mia had previously believed. Maybe Maya was strong in a way that Mia wasn't. Nevertheless, she vowed that until the day she died, she would always be there when her sister needed her the most. "I'll be back soon, Maya." She left the shed then, leaving the light on, pretending not to notice the way Maya's eyes clouded over when Mia had turned her back.


	16. The Best Action

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Sixteen: The Best Action **

The rain was easing up slightly, but now Mia was definitely feeling weighed down by her damp clothing. She shrugged off her jacket, and after making sure that her badge wouldn't fall out, she tied it around her waist, the sleeves slapping against her bare legs. _Damn this short skirt._ It did not help that she was also exposing her arms to the elements; although the rain was less heavy now, the wind was still bitingly chilly.

Fey Manor was sure to be warm, however, comfort was not Mia's main reason for returning. Uncle Peter would be there, if he hadn't been lying about going to inform Aunt Morgan. She could not shake her forebodings. The fire burning in the house—it just seemed too deliberate. Aunt Morgan didn't _know_ about what Uncle Peter had possibly done, did she? No. Mia shook her head. Aunt Morgan had no reason to hurt Maya.

That was a lie too, and Mia knew it. Frustrated, she brushed the fringe out of her eyes. Aunt Morgan would have a possible _motive_, yes, but it was almost too surreal. Aunt Morgan was the only sort of mother Maya had ever known, and mothers…mothers always did what was best for their children, didn't they?

_Mia cradles the small baby in her arms, glad that she has been able to outrun her demons, for now. Mother waits at the end of the street, holding a simple lantern, and even though she's young, Mia can't stop thinking that what she is doing is wrong. Mother smiles as she approaches, and Mia sees there's already a strange black car pulled up onto the path; she has never seen such a fancy vehicle in her life. The passenger's window is rolled down, and as Mia passes her mother the baby gently, she cannot help but sneak a peak—the man's face is turned and when he speaks to her mother he is talking out of the corner of her mouth. "Everything is in order, Misty," he says, and Mother nods numbly as she tries to sooth the fussy baby before giving her to her father as he opens the door partly. "I will not return."_

He holds the child awkwardly as he tries to close the door once more. Mia's never seen her mother like this before; Mother had always been a strong woman. Mia had never seen her cry before. The fingers of Mother's spare hand flatten against the window, which the man starts to roll up. "I'll miss you."

Mia tries to wrap her arms around her mother, but they can't go around the whole way. She rests her head against Mother's stomach, and declares, "I'll take care of you."

Mother takes hold of her hand, and gives it a gentle squeeze. Mia places her other hand on Mother's stomach, and in that moment, she feels a forceful kick. Mother winces.

Mia had almost expected the car to have driven off by now, after the man had gotten what he wanted, but it is still there, the man is leaning against the window, sneering. "Charming," he breathes against the glass, but his gaze softens as he looks at the bundle in her arms, and although the man had looked scary a few seconds earlier, Mia found that in this moment, his face was almost tender. Stroking the side of the baby's cheek with a single finger, he lowered his lips to her head and uttered a single word. "Franziska_"._

Then she hears the man order a directive to his driver and a snap of the fingers, and the wheels start turning and before she knows it, the car is gone. She tugs the edge of Mother's sleeve as she feels the confusion muddle her thoughts again. "What happens if…if Daddy comes to take me away?" she asks, and Mother's eyes cloud over for a moment, the careful smile turning into a frown. "I don't mean J-Jack. I mean, my real Daddy."

Mother's hand strokes her hair lightly; they're still standing outside. It's very late now, way past her bedtime. "He's never coming back, Mia, and even if he did, I would never let him take you away. Never."

The words are reassuring and some of Mia's fears are assuaged for now. Then after pausing for thought, she says, "And he'll never take you away either, right?"

"No." Mother smiles, before leading Mia away from the main street and back towards Fey Manor. "I'm sorry," she says as they walk slowly, side by side, "I never would have asked you to do this if I had any other choice."

It's Mia's turn to squeeze her mother's hand. "I get it now, I think…It's for the good of Kurain, isn't it?"

She's not sure how to interpret the brief moment of hesitation before Mother answers. "Exactly."

"But still…" Mia bites the thumbnail of her free hand. "…Aunt Morgan…she doesn't know yet, does she? That…the baby's gone?"

Mother stops moving at that moment; Mia keeps trying to walk forward and the sudden halt in pace almost makes her trip over. "I am not going to lie to you, Mia," Mother says slowly, "she does not know yet_, but come morning, I will tell her what has transpired. But it's for her own good, as well. If she believes she has a chance, it will possess her thoughts from the moment she wakes up to the moment she goes to sleep at night. She will be fixated with the very idea of one day being able to instate her own daughter as the Master of Kurain. It will affect our lives, but also hers as well. Maybe once Maya is born, you'll understand the lengths I have taken to protect our family."_

Mia looks down at the ground, and thinks that even now she is beginning to understand. She loves her mother, and has helped her…helped her steal_ the child away, even though the very thought makes her feel sick. How can Mother know that the very same thing won't happen to her, that maybe someday Aunt Morgan or someone else would decide that it would be in her mother's best interests if she, Mia, were gone from Kurain for good? However, there is some truth to what she is saying. If it means her family's safety—then sacrifices, naturally, would have to be made, right?_

She hears her mother's heavy breathing, and decides not to push the issue for now. After all, mothers only did what was best for their children—best for the ones they loved. She had to be responsible, just like Mother had always told her to be, and accept that she was being told the truth. "What about the money?" Mia asks suddenly, and Mother laughs, but Mia hasn't said anything funny.

"It was indeed quite a generous sum. I plan on passing most of it on to Morgan—we ourselves have enough for now, although I shall put a little bit aside for the future. Just in case you or your sister ever want to go to college."

Mother was just trying to take care of her sister. Was that really so bad? Aunt Morgan, at the very least, was going to be taken care of. Mia, however, couldn't help but feel sorry for the baby. She was so small, and yet, so strong. If she wasn't brought up in the village, how would she learn to control the demons that were bound to visit her in vulnerable moments? The baby didn't even have a Magatama of her own. "The baby's really powerful," Mia notes, pulling on her mother's hand. "I couldn't control my own_ powers when I was holding her. What if...she sees demons too?"_

Frowning, Mother looks down at her. "You've been slacking off with your training, Mia. You will be the Master one day, and by now I was hoping that you would have more control than that. Isn't the Magatama helping at all?"

Mia tries not to feel guilty about skipping the days of meditation to sneak off into the storage shed to read the dusty books she had found. Books about the world outside the village that Mia had only been to once or twice. There were books about how to get around Los Angeles, books about the history of countries like Russia and Australia, which she had never heard of before and there were books about detectives and lawyers_, solving mysteries and murders._

Mother takes Mia's silence as shame. "I'm not angry, Mia. It'll just mean you'll have to try a little harder, won't you?"

Mia doesn't answer the question, not at first. Instead, she fidgets with her own Magatama. "When I was holding the baby…I saw Daddy."

Instantly, Mother is kneeling beside her, wobbling awkwardly at first as she tries to regain her balance. Her hand rubs Mia's back, and Mia sees her mother pausing, trying to find the right words to say, but they don't come. "I'm sorry."

Mia feels her body shaking, now that she's mentioned it again, the image is as clear as ever in her mind. "Did Daddy really lose his arm?"

Mother nods, holding Mia as tightly as she can. "Training will make it easier to deal with."

The lantern flickers and they start walking again; there's not much life left in it, leaving Mia to wonder how long Mother has been standing outside in the dark for. Had she been talking to the strange man, the baby's father? She wonders if the baby's father is the same man who had spent so much time here last year; the man Daddy had been fighting with the day he had died.

She hadn't seen the baby's father's face properly in the dark, and she isn't sure she remembers the man from last year very well. She mainly remembered his fancy suit—men came and went from Kurain frequently, but none had been so ornately dressed.

"The baby, though, she won't be able to deal with any of it, will she? She'll see demons, and she won't have training or a Magatama to control it. What if…what if something happens to her daddy too and she has to see him every night?"

Their pace slows, but they keep walking, not wanting to be left with no light in the moonless night. "You're really worried, aren't you, Mia? It is possible to learn to cope without any formal training."

The baby would have to figure it out all on her own. Mia's fingers come up to her own Magatama again and she announces, "If I ever see her again, I'll give her a Magatama."

They're near Fey Manor now, and their arrival is fortuitously timed as the lantern's light runs out then, but the lamps outside the house illuminates the stairs. Instead of pulling her into the house, and tucking her into bed, telling her they'll talk more in the morning, Mother seats Mia down on the stairs and after a few moments, sits beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Her father's taking her to Germany. He'll take good care of her. If things go well, we'll never see her again."

That doesn't matter to Mia, after all, isn't it the thought that counts? She hopes that the baby doesn't have to see the demons too, but that's all she can do now: hope. She rests her head on Mother's shoulder. Mother sweeps Mia's hair off her face, hand resting gently against her cheek, arm bent at an angle that can't be all together comfortable. "I'm proud of you, Mia."

They linger on the stairs, sitting in silence, and although they say nothing, Mia knows Mother is waiting for dawn's arrival, when Aunt Morgan will awaken and Mother will have to face up to what she—no, they, have done. The scarce light forms shadows on Mother's face and she looks older than thirty, weary and tired with her own actions. In that moment, Mia realises it hasn't been easy for Mother either and she can almost forgive her. Snuggling into her mother's side as safely as she can, she drapes an arm over her mother's stomach, over her little sister, and closes her eyes, trying not to think of Daddy. All along, Mother had just been trying her best.

Mia stopped in her tracks then, wiping at her face with the end of her scarf. People could _try_ to do their best, but that was all they could really do in the end—try. After all, if her childhood had taught her anything, it was that there was no one 'best' action for everyone involved. In fact, sometimes the best option was just whatever minimised the impeding danger the most. Aunt Morgan may only want what was best for Maya—or maybe she wanted what was best for her own daughters. In the end, though, no matter what, Mia couldn't rely on her aunt to save the day. Mia had to try her best too. This situation was completely out of her control now—_someone had been shot_.

Mia knew that Morgan loathed it when outsiders came to the village, but this was not a channelling gone wrong or a feral dog spooking the cows. This was dangerous, her family—her _sister_ was in trouble, and Mia had to deal with it the way she knew best—the law.

She wasn't silly enough to even hope that her cell would get reception here, high in the mountains, so she hurried to the front of the village, and into the phone booth—the blessedly _dry_ phone booth. She paused to regain her breath and calm herself before picking up the receiver, looking doubtfully at the keypad. She was just doing her best, wasn't she? But then again, people doing what was best had caused this situation in the first place…what else was there to do though? Rubbing her hands together in the hope that the friction would cause some of the lost feeling to return, she then dialled three numbers.

_Nine. One. One._.


	17. Familial Revelations

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Seventeen: Familial Revelations **

Meanwhile, Gregory had been sitting in the chair for a little while now, watching as Morgan carefully applied pressure to von Karma's bleeding wound. She had to be the one who'd shot him—she was the only other one in the room when he and Misty's daughter--_Mia_--had broken the door down. Why would she try to help him? It didn't make sense—but then again, nothing did now.

He wanted to talk to her, ask her questions, but he didn't want to cross the room and be anywhere near Manfred von Karma when he regained consciousness. She wouldn't talk to him anyway, that much was very clear. He could probably sneak out now, she seemed fairly preoccupied, but where would he go? The answers were all here.

Von Karma's eyelids flickered, and Morgan tied the bandage before moving to stand up, making her way to the kitchen. "…Edgeworth." Von Karma's voice was weak, not at all like Gregory had remembered it. "Even in death, you cannot stop following me."

Gregory had tried not to be blatant with his research of von Karma, his near obsession with the man during his childhood that had stretched into his attorney days, but von Karma would have been a fool to overlook it. "I was called here." Gregory brushed blue hair out of his eyes, an action, he noticed, that made the lines around von Karma's scowl deepen as he struggled to pull himself up into some sort of seated position. "Your daughter's a spirit medium?"

Anger flashed in von Karma's eyes; he was a dangerous man: Gregory knew that von Karma was not above tampering with evidence and manipulating witnesses to receive his verdicts, but the look in his eyes now was not the ice cold logic Gregory was used to seeing in the courtroom. Now, von Karma almost looked _murderous_. However, although von Karma's blood loss didn't seem life threatening at this stage, the location of the bullet seemed to prevent him jumping to his feet. Rumour had it that von Karma had a stun gun and Gregory doubted that he wouldn't use it, given the opportunity. Gregory wondered if he would return to being dead if he lost consciousness. "Franziska is a prosecutor," von Karma corrected.

"Just like Papa, I see." Gregory had wanted to be a prosecutor too, back when he was a young child. He'd begged his parents to take him to the courthouse, and in turn, they had convinced his elder sister Frances to drive him there. They'd gone plenty of times; Frances had been between jobs—she'd just saved up enough money to travel to Europe like she had always dreamt of doing and was in the process of trying to find the cheapest plane tickets to do so. Their family was rich, but their parents had always believed these sort of things were better enjoyed when they were earned with one's own money. There was also less of a chance of Frances squandering the family's finances that way.

Frances had met Manfred in the courthouse library, or technically, Gregory had barrelled straight into him, knocking him over. It seemed like another lifetime, looking at von Karma lying on the floor, eyes boring into the side of Gregory's head. Then again, it _was_ another lifetime: for Gregory, at the very least. It seemed so long ago when Frances had announced her engagement, so long ago when Frances had arranged the tutoring sessions with Manfred von Karma…so long ago since von Karma had given up on him. When Gregory had tried to read the words in the books that von Karma had given him to read, they sometimes blended together or he couldn't remember which letter represented which sound. He'd tried his hardest, he really had, but in the end, von Karma had just declared him a mentally incompetent fool. Frances had seen Gregory crying a few weeks later, when he'd though no-one had been watching. She and Manfred had been married for a few months by that stage. She read the books to him; she was the only one who understood: he wasn't _dumb_, it was just that the words were so _confusing_.

Later that night she told him that she was pregnant and she was moving to Germany.

Even without his sister around, he'd tried his hardest, worked a lot more than some of the other people around him had to, but he'd managed it. He'd become a successful defense attorney. He'd dreamt of one day facing Manfred von Karma and winning—a task deemed impossible by most other defense attorneys. A task that still _was_ impossible, all things considered, but Gregory had been the closest—the only one to put a chink in von Karma's armour—a single penalty in a long history of perfect wins. After that point in time, though, Gregory could hardly remember anything about his life. Maybe it was because after that, nothing else had mattered…or had he died soon after? He struggled to think of his last memory. If he thought really hard, he remembered standing in front of the courthouse's elevator, Miles by his side as he pressed the button for the ground floor. But when had that been? Scenes didn't make much sense out of context.

"Just like her father, Franziska is perfect." The scowl had been replaced with a proud smile—then again, the two expressions hardly looked any different on von Karma's face.

Had Miles been with him when he'd died? Gregory shuddered at the thought. _Miles, what has happened to you?_. Remembering the strange memories, Gregory knew that Franziska—von Karma's daughter—knew his son. The question was 'how'? "This Franziska of yours…she knows my son?"

von Karma barely blinked at the question, but he did not answer immediately. Gregory could feel apprehension building in the depths of his stomach. After what felt like a predetermined waiting time, he replied, "Your son will be one America's greatest prosecutors, just like you always wanted, Edgeworth."

That didn't make sense. All right—so his son and von Karma's daughter knew each other through their prosecuting careers, but von Karma wasn't as stupid as to think that Gregory would want his son to become a prosecutor. Miles would never want to be a prosecutor. "He's always wanted to be a defense attorney."

"I did not mention anything about what your boy wanted, Edgeworth. What _you_ always wanted."

"I'm not the same little boy whose dreams you can crush anymore, von Karma. I overcame your resistance; I became a successful attorney in my own right, with a wonderful career ahead of me."

von Karma had pulled himself closer to the wall now, leaning against it and applying pressure to his wound, hand covered in blood. "Wonderful career it is, being dead. Unable even to take care of your own son…you should feel very grateful that I was around to clean up your messes, Gregory Edgeworth."

It was as if the pieces of a jigsaw were falling into place. Von Karma had raised his son. _von Karma had raised his son_. Well, no wonder Miles knew his daughter then. They had grown up together. _Miles, what has he done to you?_. "Why?"

Von Karma tried to turn slightly—it was just then that Gregory noticed that von Karma's uninjured leg was trapped beneath the other one—but it just resulted in a wince of pain. "Naturally, when one takes in another man's son out of the kindness of their heart, one would expect a little gratitude. Did you want your son bounced around the foster system because you were too ill-sighted to name a guardian in case of unfortunate tragedy?" The corner of von Karma's lip curled. "You know what happens in the foster system."

"Thank you," Gregory said as ungraciously as he could. In event of his death…Frances was meant to take care of Miles. He'd never factored in the thought that _she_ could die before him. His only other living relative had been Lisbeth, his niece, and there was no way she would want to adopt a child, especially while she was studying medicine full-time at university. His own wife had died when Miles was barely two years old and she had no siblings. It made sense, then, that von Karma would gain custody of Miles. Not that Gregory _liked_ it, but he knew that no grievous harm could have befallen his son while von Karma was raising him. Von Karma cared too much for his self image to let such a thing happen. However, there was still the potential for mind games…von Karma had ruined Gregory's childhood dreams, after all. Then again, what had von Karma said earlier? _One of America's greatest prosecutors…_.

Miles had succeeded where he, Gregory, had failed. What more could a father possibly want for his son? "Thank you," he repeated, and this time, the words came out stronger.

The scowl was back, and Manfred slowly raised an arm, wagging his finger before him. "There's no need for false platitudes, Edgeworth. In the end, it is just what your sister would have wanted. That's all."

Of course, von Karma had not taken his son in because he felt indebted to him, Gregory. No, considering he had blotted von Karma's perfect win record, he wouldn't be more surprised if he had just left Miles to the whims of the foster system. However, this meant that somehow—unexpectedly—von Karma still cared about Frances. Gregory had been there when she had died; the beautiful elder sister he had always admired, frail and pale in her hospital bed. In her last words, she'd asked him where her husband was. Gregory didn't answer, and Lisbeth, from the other side of the bed, said he was in court today. In America, so far away from the hospital in Germany. Frances had closed her eyes and gone to sleep, never waking up.

"Frances—" Gregory started, but then the door slammed open, heavy rain pattering onto the floor. Gregory jumped out of the chair at last, eyeing the man who had just walked in. He was wearing pyjamas and carrying a small child in his arms—a small child who was wailing, fists beating at his shoulders. If the man noticed, he didn't seem to care.

Morgan had heard the door open, because at that moment, she rushed out of the kitchen. Gregory could not ignore the sound of von Karma's sharp inhale of breath. The small girl aimed a kick at the man's stomach: he acknowledged this, at least, and he scolded her before setting her on the ground. She ran straight towards Morgan, hiding herself in the folds of the robe. "Mommy?"

Deciding that there wasn't time to waste words, Morgan asked, "Why are you here, Peter?" She leaned over so she could stroke the back of the girl's head, and the girl wailed, burying her face even further into its depths, not even daring to sneak a glance out around the room.

The man called Peter crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at the floor, fringe flopping over his eyes. "The old house is burning down, Morgan. Mystic Maya's whereabouts are unknown." His voice was soft and gentle, even though his stance looked somewhat defiant to Gregory.

The lines in Morgan's forehead deepened in thought, and when she spoke, her voice was much angrier than Gregory had imagined it could ever be. "That was not part of the plan." Her hand sneaked into her pockets.

Peter raises an eyebrow as he gestures to the room behind him, first to Gregory, standing in front of his chair, and then Manfred, slumped next to the wall on the other side of the room. "This was never part of the plan either, Morgan. It was meant to be simple, and now there's a man bleeding on the floor. Give me the gun."

Morgan wavered for a moment, before pulling an object out of her robes. It was a gun all right; Gregory could make out its shape if he squints. Was this the gun that had been used to shoot von Karma? She carefully made sure the safety was still in place before handing it back to Peter, who, instead of putting it away, held it in one hand, pointing it at Morgan. "Good, now you won't be tempted to do any other silly things, will you?" He smiled, and Gregory was reminded of a school teacher telling off a child for playing in the mud.

It seemed that Morgan did not take kindly to being patronized. "I'm not the one doing silly things, Peter." She moved, doing her best to circle him despite the small child clinging onto her legs. Where she went, the barrel of the gun followed. "Mystic Maya is no obstacle at the moment. Surely, that much is obvious. There is no need to threaten me with my own weapon."

Peter stalled for a moment. "You've been keeping this gun here?" he asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

"Defense, naturally. I would have to say that it came in handy in this situation."

"Are you saying I haven't been taking care of you, Morgan?" Peter asked ruefully, gun still pointing at her face. "After everything I've done? I've arranged it all—after tonight, Mystic Maya will no longer be a problem. After tonight, our Pearly will have the pathway paved clearly in front of her—isn't that what we've always wanted? That's why I couldn't let you do this, Morgan. Especially not after I discovered how to negate Mystic Mia from the equation as well. I couldn't stand by and just let you bring back this little mistake of yours back to the village. What about everything we had planned for our Pearly? The world's her oyster; she should be able to have anything that she wants. Come to Daddy, Pearly." He held the gun loosely at his side and Pearly peeked for the first time, eyes wide and scared. Then she took a tentative step forward, her mother's robes still fisted in hands. Then she let go, taking a second step. Then she ran into her father's arms, and he lifted her up again, supporting her from underneath with one hand, her arms wrapped around his neck.

"I'd dreamt of Pearly growing up in the village, special and precious, just as she deserves. Obviously, you don't share these sentiments. You'd rather play games with your past instead of looking at what the future has in store for us! Don't worry, when I leave, I'll take Pearly with me—after all, it seems that I am the only one who knows how to take care of her."

Both Gregory and von Karma had been silent, neither of them wanting to interfere. However, something in Peter's last sentences pushed von Karma over the line, and he interrupted the arguing pair. "Franziska was _not_ a mistake."

Peter's face brightened, he took the gun out again, ignoring Pearl when she hit him in the shoulder. He walked over to von Karma and Morgan followed him, until they were both standing side by side in front of von Karma. Gregory had to move to be able to see them again. He was much closer now, although he still felt that he was intruding in some sort of deeply private family affair. Leaning over von Karma, Peter breathed, "Having unplanned children is always a mistake, Manfred von Karma."

"She was not unplanned." It was Morgan, and not von Karma who corrected Peter. "I had it all planned out perfectly—"

"That's what you always say, Morgan, and things just keep going horribly wrong, don't they? Especially when you involve yourself with slimy bastards such as this one—kidnapping a baby…there's not many more despicable crimes than that."

"I was keeping my daughter safe." Gregory could tell that von Karma was feeling helpless, trapped on the floor as he was. "Safe from the likes of you."

Morgan grabbed her husband's arm tightly then; he raised an eyebrow at her. "You're in no position to be judging character, good sir. Peter has never killed a man."

Tapping the side of the gun, Peter added a single word. "Yet."

The implications sent Gregory's mind reeling. _Von Karma had killed someone?_ He didn't seem the type—Gregory knew von Karma wasn't above manipulating people or incapacitating them, but _murder_? The only way he could see von Karma involved in any sort of murder was as the puppet master, writing instructions in cold blood for someone else to follow through with. There was no way that he would implicate himself and there was no way he was the type of man to lose his composure in the heat of the moment and murder someone. No. von Karma was—oh, how Gregory loathed to use the word—too _perfect_ for that.

How did Morgan know, anyway? Why hadn't she told the police?

Peter took a step away from his wife then, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I suppose I'll be going then. There's no reason for me to stay here any more. I don't need to remain here to watch your pitiful revenge plot fail. I'll take Pearly with me; she deserves to grow up somewhere where people will truly appreciate her talents." His hand idly stroked her hair, and Pearl stopped resisting then, clutching to her father tighter than she had before. "Both Mystic Mia and Mystic Maya should be a hassle no longer; you have a lot to thank me for, Morgan."

Morgan took a step towards Peter, placing her other hand on Pearl's shoulder. "You will not take my daughter away from me," she hissed, and Peter held the gun up to her face and Morgan froze, her hand now against Pearl's cheek.

"You think you can stop me, Morgan Fey?" Peter scoffed. "It's interesting, isn't it, that all of your children have been taken away from you? Then it's not only me who thinks of you as an unfit mother. This man here," he paused to glare at Manfred, "took his daughter away to Germany, just to keep her safe. That's on an entirely different continent, Morgan!"

Morgan stalled; still silent for the moment, and Peter continued. "There's nothing you can do about it. The wheels of the wagon have been set into motion. Mystic Maya Fey will die; and Mystic Mia will be held responsible for the tragedy."

"If you run away today, do you not think your actions will be viewed as suspicious?" Morgan's face had paled at the accusations, but it seemed that she had tried her best to ignore them.

Peter turned his face away for a moment, burying his nose into his daughter's hair. "I'm only running away from the people who are threatening my family; the person who killed my niece. All I'm doing is protecting my daughter; is that too much to ask?"

Von Karma smiled then, a sinister smile curling up across his face, his hands doing his best to apply continuous pressure to his gunshot wound. "You won't be able to keep Morgan Fey away for long," he said ruefully. "She's rather…resilient."

"You're forgetting something, Manfred von Karma: after tonight she will no longer have anyone to rely on to do her despicable deeds for her and while she plots and schemes, she will never dirty her own hands. No. Never."

"Never?" Morgan quirked an eyebrow. "Are you perhaps suggesting that Mr von Karma here shot himself?"

"But shooting Manfred von Karma was never part of the plan, was it? You just wanted to take his daughter away from him as revenge for ruining your life, and watch him fail as he tried to retrieve her, toying with him every step of the way." The gun was still directed squarely at Morgan's face, and although her voice betrayed the very slightest hint of hesitation, she replied.

"Look at her," Morgan said proudly, "a spirit medium to be proud of. With very little preparation, she has already managed to hold a spirit for an extended period of time. Would I set up my perfect daughter for failure? No, I would not. I would not have brought her here if I did not have the intention to train her."

"Franziska is perfect because she is a von Karma: perfect in every way." Von Karma looked even paler, and he slipped a hand into his pocket as his face contorted in pain. "I am the one who raised her this way, the one who has taught her how to achieve the highest levels of perfection. You cannot claim any sort of responsibility for who my daughter is today."

"I was never given a chance due to the actions of my sister and yourself. It's a tragedy, what happened to Mystic Misty, but I cannot say it was undeserved."

"A tragedy…" von Karma's voice was becoming weaker by the moment; even though the injury was not grievous, it was still taking a serious toll on his energy. "…you always hated your sister, Morgan Fey."

Morgan looked affronted as she took a step towards von Karma, leaning over him in a way similar to Peter. "Hate is such a crude word, good sir. Mystic Misty is a woman to be admired—"

"She just had an extraordinary ability to get in the way, rather like yourself, Morgan. You two are more similar than you think," Peter interrupted Morgan, wiping at his forehead once more. "Your constant struggle for power was amusing to behold."

"…Amusing?" Morgan asked, her lips thinning. "In what way?"

Seeing that their conversation was going to take a while, Peter relaxed his grip on the gun, checking to ensure the safety was on letting his arm dangle loosely at his side. "You always thought that it was going to be you who would lead Kurain onto further greatness."

Morgan took a step away from von Karma and her husband then. Pearl started sniffling and Morgan turned her head, eyes not wanting to look at her daughter's face. "Yet, you overlook the fact that you thought that I was to become the master as well."

Pearl started squirming again then, tears splashing down onto her cheeks. "Tired," she moaned, clutching at her father's lapels.

Peter wiped her cheeks gently as he answered, "I made a mistake, Morgan. People make mistakes."

"You made two mistakes, Peter, and that is just carelessness. You left Mystic Misty behind, twenty years old and pregnant just because you didn't think she stood a chance of becoming the master, and I was untouchable, months away from wedding Robert Hawthorne. You return to the village fifteen years later to find you are too late; Mystic Misty is already gone. The only one left…is me."

However, Peter seemed to have stoped listening by the end of Morgan's second sentence. "…Pregnant?" he asked, flicking his fringe off his forehead where it had started to stick where it mingled with his sweat.

Morgan did not answer. Peter took a step backwards.

"You lie, Morgan Fey. That would mean…"

"Mystic Mia is your daughter, yes."


	18. Obstacle Removal

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Eighteen: Obstacle Removal **

The room was silent for what felt like hours. Gregory did not dare to interrupt, no matter how much he wanted to continue his conversation with von Karma; no matter how much he wanted to ask about his sister and question the past, there was no time and no opportunity. Von Karma himself looked weak and frail, nothing like the intimidating prosecutor Gregory had faced the last time he had stood in court. Gregory knew that deep down; this was the last chance he would ever have to get the answers to the questions he had always asked himself. Even if he suspected he already knew what the answer would be, he had to receive the closure he desired from Manfred von Karma himself.

It was Pearl that interrupted the silence, her cries becoming louder. Peter was still staring wide-eyed at Morgan when she spoke. "Return my daughter to me, leave, and do not come back this time."

Peter set Pearl down on the ground, but held onto her hand tightly, then cocked and aimed the gun in a single fluid motion. "Next time you decide to joke around, Morgan, I'd advise you to actually be funny."

"I'll keep that in mind," Morgan answered, placing one hand on top of the other, "if I ever decide to 'joke'."

Peter's eyes narrowed as he made small, smoothing movements on the back of his daughter's hand with his thumb. "Mystic Mia…" he said slowly "…is not my daughter."

"Deny the truth all you want, but the facts will not change, Peter. You abandoned your pregnant fiancée and she had a daughter. That girl is Mia Fey." She paused then. "I suppose it doesn't matter now; you said you have 'negated her from the equation'?"

"Pearl is the one. Pearl is the only one. Mystic Mia means nothing to me. Mystic Misty meant nothing to me—"

"Then, I suppose, I am meaningless to you as well."

For a moment, Peter was silent, his gaze fixated at a spot on the ground. Then he looked up, a small smile forming on his face. "You are nothing. You will never amount to anything. You will always be trapped in your sister's shadow; you will be outshined by your very own daughter." He looked down at Pearl then, and she back at him, eyes wide and her thumb in her mouth. Bending his knees, but keeping the gun trained at Morgan, he let go of Pearl's hand. She remained rooted to the spot as her father patted her hair affectionately as he whispered, "It's all for you, precious one."

Pearl nodded blithely.

"Then," Peter continued, "if you continue to stand in my way, Morgan Fey...I have no qualms about eliminating obstacles when they appear before me!"

Gregory could see the gun clearly, and the longer it stayed cocked and ready to fire, the queasier he felt. He didn't have much experience with guns; he hadn't been taught how to properly handle one and none of his family members had ever dealt with them while he had been growing up. He only saw them as weapons of murder and intimidation in the cases that he had undertaken, back when he had still been alive.

Maybe it was different, seeing someone prepared to shoot a gun. He'd never actually seen a gun in action apart from television. Maybe, prior to this, he had just been lucky.

_Just how had he died anyway?_ Why couldn't he remember? It couldn't have been a gun, surely? Wouldn't he remember that?

_Cold. Dark. Cramped._

For a moment, Gregory felt as though he was suffocating, but then he forced himself to take deep breaths. He didn't know these people: even after all these years, he still felt as though he barely knew Manfred von Karma at all. He had the least to lose in this situation—he couldn't even lose his _life_. That had already been taken away from him, after all.

His hand crept up to his face with the intention of pushing his glasses up his nose, a familiar, comforting action, before he remembered that he wasn't wearing them, which was why everything was blurry. How did one take control of a situation like this, to prevent there from being more bleeding people on the floor? He wondered again why he should care, but he had the sneaking suspicion that if the woman died, he'd never be able to talk to von Karma and discover more about what happened to his son.

He'd also wouldn't know how to return home…not that he knew what 'home' was anymore. He decided to try his most commanding voice. "Peter, is it? Put the gun away, no-one needs to get hurt."

It all happened in a matter of moments. Peter, who had been grinning at Morgan, finger gently resting on the trigger of the handgun, turned to face Gregory. "Who do you think you are, speaking to me like that, dead guy?" The gun was pointing at him now, and Gregory could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. _Dead, already dead._ He brushed a few strands of blue hair behind his ears.

"You _fool_, Edgeworth!" von Karma roared from his spot on the floor. "Use that daft brain of yours for once in your life!"

The words reminded him of his childhood. It almost made him feel serene, as if everything had come around full circle. "I'm already dead, von Karma," he said, smiling as he walked calmly towards Peter, determined if anything, to pull the gun off him.

Gregory didn't understand why von Karma was struggling to his feet, his breathing heavy and laboured. "Your death," von Karma hissed, leaning against the wall before slipping down again. "Your death is not a matter of concern to me."

Peter seemed to be waiting until Gregory came closer, but Gregory stopped in his tracks then, turning to look properly at the man who had, once upon a time, been his mentor. "Of course it wouldn't be," Gregory said, placing his fingers lightly on his forehead and shaking his head. "You didn't even care about your own wife's death, did you?" He saw von Karma's scowl deepen, and he continued walking.

Von Karma managed to stand then, his entire weight shifted onto his one good leg. "Stop, Edgeworth! Now!" It was probably Gregory's imagination, but there seemed to be a hint of desperation in von Karma's voice. Stop asking questions or stop walking?

"Daddy?" Pearl's thumb was in her mouth again as she stood next to her father. "I'm…s-scared."

"Don't worry, my angel," Peter said with a smile on his face. "It will all be over soon."

Gregory hadn't seen Morgan move; he had been too focused on walking towards Peter, towards the gun. But now she was standing behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I don't think you properly understand Mr von Karma's concerns, good sir. He does not care about you, or even this sister of yours. The only one he cares about is himself. It would be a _grievous_ wound to his pride if he lost his perfect daughter. Do you understand now?"

He could hear von Karma's raised, angered voice in the background, but he ignored it for now. Von Karma's daughter? _Franziska._ Of course—the girl who was currently channelling him.

It was then and only then when everything fell into place. If Peter shot him, then it would be all over for one person, at the least: Franziska. Von Karma's daughter, his only child to follow in his footsteps, would die.

Peter's face hardened as he tried to straighten his pyjama pants; a difficult task, considering his daughter was clinging to them. "Morgan, you didn't need to spell it out for him," he said coolly.

Everything seemed to happen at once then. Von Karma had taken a few steps forward, only to tumble face-first to the floor, landing squarely on his bleeding wound. The door that lead outside swung open and Gregory clearly saw Misty's daughter's face framed in the doorway seconds before he saw Peter pull the trigger.


	19. All in the Past

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Nineteen: All in the Past**

Franziska slumped heavily to the ground, not entirely sure of where she was any more. Had she…had she channelled a spirit? Of course she had; it would be silly to think that she, Franziska von Karma, would fail at _anything_. Her head pounded and she could hear people yelling, although for now, she could not make out distinct words.

Nor could she open her eyes, no matter how much she wanted to, to find out where she was and what had happened to the people who had taken her away. Papa would know what to do with them; Papa always knew what to do.

Was she in the hospital now? She was so exhausted she couldn't move; she could hardly feel her limbs at all.

In that moment, she thought she felt her mother. Ever since that day, over four years ago now where Miles Edgeworth had taught her how to make the bad dreams disappear, her mother's prominence in her bedroom at nighttimes had faded to the extent she would have forgotten the smell…but it was here, in this very room, almost overpowering her. It had never been this strong before, even when she had been young.

Hands stroked the hair away from Franziska's forehead, but she still could not see anything. She tried to let the touch comfort her; when she had been young, she had worried about her mother stealing her away—but now, she was already far from everything she had ever known. She wanted nothing more than to feel the crisp material of Papa's impeccably kept suits underneath her hands, wanted nothing more than assurance her father had not left her behind again.

She tried to call for him, but were her lips even moving? She wanted to scream, but she couldn't even talk. _Papa_. The word was right there, on the tip of her tongue, but she was unable to move, trapped between her own body. The voices were quietening now, as though they were moving away. Maybe they didn't want to wake her up? Perhaps she was quite sick.

One word cut clearly through the jumble of sounds surrounding her.

"…Franziska."

The last thing Franziska von Karma heard before she lost consciousness was her mother's voice, saying her name.

* * *

Gregory had feared for his life when he saw the bullet of Peter's gun flying towards him; although Gregory knew that he was already dead, it did not seem to make the situation any less threatening. He hadn't even had time to think about jumping out of the way; the last thing he remembered was von Karma's scream before Gregory had inexplicably found himself on the other side of the room after a two second long blank period of time.

He could see von Karma's daughter lying on the floor now, her face pale, even for a von Karma and her blue hair splayed around her face. The memory of the flying bullet and the fact that he had been occupying Franziska's body made him freeze in place. Had she…_had she been shot_?

Franziska was not moving, but Morgan was; she stepped towards the girl and knelt on the ground, and with a small, measured smile on her face she stroked the girl's hair, whispering her name.

Gregory stepped forwards, hands in the air, as he walked towards Franziska. He hoped that if he appeared non-threatening, Peter would not shoot again for now. However, as peaceful as Gregory was trying to be, his efforts would be futile if von Karma continued to rile Peter up. _With that amount of bleeding, the man should be in a hospital_, Gregory thought to himself, but Manfred von Karma was extremely stubborn and Gregory had the feeling that they were miles from anywhere at the moment.

There was no blood on the floor near Franziska; Gregory could see that as he came closer. Surely this meant she hadn't been shot? Maybe she was just sleeping; it appeared that way, and Gregory felt a flash of relief when he noticed the tell tale signs of the rise and fall of the young girl's chest. _She was alive._ But how? That bullet had been so fast and Gregory had not done anything to get out of the way.

As a defense attorney, he had never believed in miracles; one had to be always be on one's guard to find the flaws in the prosecution's statements—that was the only way to make progress against men like Manfred von Karma, and after years of trying, he, Gregory Edgeworth had been successful! And that had been no trick of fate; it had been tireless effort, and perhaps a bit of relentless obstinacy.

But Gregory had no other explanation as for why he was no longer being channelled for Franziska...unless...his hands ran up to his hair; he noticed it was long and brown, falling neatly over his shoulder. He was being channelled by someone else—and it was clear who the most obvious candidate would be. He'd seen Misty's daughter run into the room moments before the gunshot was fired—clearly, she took after her mother in her abilities. It was lucky she did, otherwise…Gregory's gaze turned back to where von Karma was attempting to stand.

"Stay away from my daughter, Morgan Fey! Now!" von Karma's voice was clear and commanding, the way it always sounded in the courtroom when he was in control of exactly what was going on. In this situation, the control didn't seem real somehow and Gregory started to find himself what sort of person could turn the usually formidable Manfred von Karma into something like _this_. Even Frances hadn't reached through to him; they had been married for over twenty years, and still von Karma had not visited her as she lay in the hospital bed, unable to do anything more than to wait for death to overtake her. However, he said he had taken care of Miles for all these years because it was 'she would have wanted'.

Gregory still had his doubts though, and took another step towards Franziska, wobbling in unfamiliar shoes until he thought to kick them off. The closer he was to the centre of the room, the easier it would be to look von Karma in the eyes when he asked him about Frances.

"That's right, Morgan, stay away if you don't want to get hurt." Peter had not relinquished his grip on the weapon. Pearl tugged on his free hand, but he did not seem to notice. "The girl," he said, gesturing in Franziska's direction with the gun, "means nothing to me. She means nothing to you. You wanted a daughter to train to become the perfect spirit medium?" Peter's eyes narrowed then, fingers tightening around the gun. "Nonsense. You already have such a daughter: her name is Pearl."

Pearl looked at her father at the mention of her name, confusion written all over her little face. Gregory wondered if she knew what was happening as Peter continued talking.

"It's time to stop the lies, Morgan. Ever since Manfred von Karma stole away your dreams thirteen years ago, you've been waiting for the opportunity for revenge." Peter walked forward then, closing in on Morgan, and although Pearl dug her heels against the floor, she could not help but be dragged across the floor by her father.

"Of course, how does one seek vengeance on the infallible Manfred von Karma?" Peter asked, and mentally, Gregory answered, _besmirch his perfect win record_, but he stayed quiet, not wanting the gun pointed in his direction again. "You thought the answer was simple, Morgan; you thought that infallible as he may appear to be, he is but a man, and take away the people he loves…and who else was in the best position to judge if Manfred von Karma actually truly loved _anyone_ but you, Morgan, a woman who had been intimate with the man in the past? You knew that the only person this _bitter, twisted, old man_ cared about was his daughter. _Your daughter_. Except she was in Germany, and she was untouchable. So you grew desperate, awaiting the very moment his daughter would step in America so you could take away the thing most precious to him, the very way he had taken the most important thing away from you: your chance to outshine your sister!"

Morgan turned her head then, fingers clutching tightly at the side of her robe. Then she looked back, her eyes angry and accusing. "Peter," she hissed, "this—everything—it is all in the past."

"And I would be inclined to agree, if you were willing to leave things in the past—but instead, you brought the past here; you brought the girl, you've brought up the topic of my past relationship with your sister—but it is all irrelevant! It is irrelevant if you allow yourself to remember that Pearly is the one. Pearly is the future. You seem to have forgotten that, and thus, you have become nothing more than an obstacle, blocking the path for Pearl to receive what she truly deserves!" Peter was sweating again, gun aimed and ready in one hand, his daughter holding the other.

Von Karma had been oddly silent, and Gregory's gaze had wandered away from the bleeding prosecutor as he had tried to follow the family affairs of Morgan and Peter. Von Karma still could not walk on his injured leg and had dragged himself closer to his daughter; Morgan had not seemed to notice yet.

They were close enough now that Gregory could see von Karma's face, even without glasses. "Manfred," Gregory called, easing into the use of the man's first name. Peter, who had been posturing loudly, fell silent and von Karma's eyes met Gregory's. "you say that you took care of Miles because it is what Frances would have wanted—but I know you didn't really care about her. Why did you _really_ raise my son? You certainly don't owe me any favours."

The corner of von Karma's mouth curled. "I didn't care about her, Edgeworth? That's an extremely presumptuous statement."

Gregory felt his hands curl into fists as he recalled the memory of his dying sister, eyes teary as she asked him where her husband was. "You weren't there when she was dying." Gregory hated the fact that his voice was trembling with barely contained anger. Sometimes he wished he didn't care so much.

Von Karma lifted an eyebrow. "A regrettable scheduling conflict; I was in the middle of a trial when I heard she had taken a turn for the worse."

"I'd never been to Germany before," Gregory said coldly, and for a moment he wanted to tear his gaze away from von Karma's eyes, but he stood steadfast as he continued, "but I went there as soon as I could, so I could be there for the last two weeks of her life."

"After the funeral, you returned home to discover your wife had left you; taken everything the two of you had bought together and left you with nothing…besides your son. Am I wrong, Edgeworth?" Gregory didn't even have time to reply before von Karma answered his own question. "Of course I'm not. You ask me if I cared for my wife? Perhaps you should ask yourself if _your_ wife cared for you first."

Gregory didn't ask von Karma how he knew about his wife; he'd kept her sudden disappearance as low-key as possible, telling his colleagues that they had 'drifted apart' and the separation had been 'as planned'. Von Karma, of course, would know everything: although Gregory was nothing more than a mere defense attorney in von Karma's eyes, the familial connection was more than enough for von Karma to keep tabs on him. Gregory wanted to argue back, to reach out his arm and scream _objection_, but in a court of law, his opponent would not be lying on the floor, bleeding.

Inch by inch, von Karma reached Franziska, then slowly dragged out the hand of his that was covered in the least blood. Almost gingerly, his fingers intertwined with those of his unconscious daughter. "As clueless as ever, Edgeworth; still as unable to deduce fact from the evidence lying in front of you. You haven't changed at all since you were nine years old. My daughter's name is _Franziska_," he said, squeezing her hand as he did so. "That is all you should need to know."

Gregory had not missed the emphasis von Karma had used while stating his daughter's name. _Franziska_. What did her name have to do with anything: it was not relevant to the situation at hand, or to Gregory, or to Frances—

Wait. _Frances_?

_Franziska_. Suddenly, Gregory realised what von Karma was really saying. Manfred von Karma had named his second daughter after his dead wife.

Perhaps von Karma _did_ really care about Frances, despite the other contradictory facts.

Maybe all along, Gregory had just been hoping that it was not only he, Gregory Edgeworth, who seemed to be surrounded by failing relationships. Firstly, there had been Miles's mother. Their relationship had been strained because of long-term illness; she wasn't meant to have children at all, the doctors told her, but in the end, Gregory and his wife had decided to take their chances—wait another year or two, and she wouldn't be able to bear children at all. This woman was the one Gregory still considered to be his actual _wife_, despite the fact that he had remarried after her death.

His second wife, who he tried to forget (and succeeded most of the time, as well) had been a relationship born out of desperation and loneliness; not to mention the additional desire of giving his son a stable family. He'd told her he loved her, but he was as bad as fooling her as he was at fooling himself. Von Karma was right—not that the 'perfect' prosecutor was ever else but right. His wife—the _second_ one—hadn't cared about him at all. Then again, he could not say he had deeply cared about her.

Perhaps she had done the right thing by leaving him; but Gregory had always regretted the way it had affected his son. She should have taken Miles with her—she could provide better for him, but Gregory knew that Miles was _his_ son, _his_ blood and _his_ responsibility.

And although he had his days where he wished that they had taken the doctors' initial advice and not had children at all, Gregory remembered the days when he managed to take time out of his busy schedule to take Miles around the city—remembered the days when Miles had started coming to the courthouse too, so they could spend more time together regardless if Gregory was busy or not.

Unlike himself, a 'good-for-nothing' defense attorney, Gregory doubted that von Karma would allow even his personal relationships to be less than perfect. Maybe for now, Gregory could do nothing else but believe that von Karma really did have Miles's best interests at heart. It was clear that von Karma cared deeply about his daughter; perhaps it wasn't too farfetched to think that von Karma had raised Miles the same way. Anything, even Manfred von Karma, was better than leaving Miles to the whims of the foster system.

Gregory had almost forgotten about Morgan, barely a few feet away from him, until she spoke again, smoothing her robes as she did so. "Isn't it time to give up the charade, good sir?" she asked the prosecutor, leaning over the von Karmas as they lay on the floor. "You never cared about anyone but yourself; the girl is just a token of your victory to you. I could not say I had bested you until my daughter was back in my arms once more; if there is one thing you should understand, it's that."

She knelt on the floor then, in the gap between Franziska and von Karma. "Franziska is…" Gregory never got to find out what Franziska was as then a loud, warbling wail came from the child holding onto Peter.

"Daddy," she whined, tugging on her father's hand, "_Sleepy_." Peter knelt down slightly to better understand the little girl, eyes flickering around the room as he did so. The maniacal glint was gone when he wasn't speaking about his daughter and Gregory was surprised to find that the man almost looked _afraid_.

Then again, Gregory supposed that Peter didn't exactly hold his wife at gunpoint everyday.

Gregory could not miss the moment that Peter looked his daughter in the eyes and the fear vanished, leaving behind only fanatic resolve. "You know what, Morgan? I don't care. I've lingered here long enough; I'm sick of hearing about the past, about _your_ daughters and _my_ daughters, not to mention I've given you enough chances to leave." He raised the gun again, first pointing it at Morgan, then moving his arm so it was pointing at Franziska. "It ends here. Everything."


	20. Shock

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Twenty: Shock**

Von Karma pushed himself to his knees, fumbling around in his pockets while trying to block his daughter out of the way. Gregory could see the perspiration on the prosecutor's face and the amount of energy he needed to exert just to move and ignore the pain that was caused from the bullet wound.

Gregory wanted to run in there and push them both out of the way, but he couldn't, because every time Peter's finger rested against the trigger of the gun, Gregory felt his heart race despite the fact he was frozen to the spot in fear.

"Franziska is…" Morgan continued, quickly straightening herself and dusting off her robe, "she is nothing to me. Pearly is the one. The only perfect one."

Peter swallowed, brushing his fringe off his forehead once more. "I'm so glad to hear you say that, Morgan. Now we've established that the girl means nothing to either of us…" Peter took a step closer, and Morgan could walk out now that she was no longer under direct threat, and she did so, until she was standing beside her husband again. Morgan and Peter, side by side, loomed over the von Karmas where they lay collapsed on the floor.

Gregory was standing opposite them, his eyes still trained on the gun. Could he do anything to stop them? Was it even possible? His lips felt dry and his tongue flicked out to moisten them.

"_Edgeworth_." The sound of von Karma's voice calling his name startled him out of his thoughts. The man had slumped to the ground again, but he was closer to his daughter now, able to wrap an arm protectively over her instead of just grasp her hand.

Gregory looked down at von Karma and their gazes met. Von Karma had his hand in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "Take this, and _use_ it!"

Peter had faltered momentarily when von Karma had spoken to Gregory, but then he closed the gap between them and shouted, angrily waving the gun around. He let go of Pearly's hand then, and she ran straight to her mother, tears on her cheeks as she hid in the woman's robes. Gregory could not reach von Karma's hands and instead von Karma threw the item across the air, and Peter was next to Gregory in a flash, and for now, the gun was trained on him instead of Franziska.

Gregory only had moments to act and looked down at his hands to see what on earth von Karma had given him.

_A stun gun?_ He'd seen ones like it before, but he'd never actually _used_ one.

Von Karma couldn't fight, that much was obvious. Did he expect Gregory to fight for him? Certainly, that seemed to be the case. Manfred von Karma was not the type of man Gregory thought would ever ask for help from anybody. It seemed that, at the very least, he cared very deeply about his daughter.

It was only when Peter's arm wrapped around his neck that Gregory realised he had spent too much time staring at the stun gun and too little time _using_ it. He saw the disproving look in von Karma's eyes, and suddenly Gregory felt nine years old again, struggling and struggling to little effect.

He was better than that now, that was a fact, and although Peter's face was entirely too close to his, but at least the man hadn't jumped the gun—literally. Gregory twisted his arms around, trying to get a good grip on the stun gun and a chance to aim it in the proper direction.

A distraction seemed to be everything that Morgan needed as she whisked Pearl up into her arms and exited the room, running off to the kitchen. Gregory was barely aware of this; he was more acutely aware of his own restricted breathing. Even though he was dead, apparently he still needed air if he was contained in a human body.

He'd just managed to shove his elbow into Peter's stomach when the man clumsily pulled the trigger; although the weapon was still pointed in Franziska and von Karma's general direction, the aim was not precise and much to Gregory's relief, the resulting bullet hit the floor harmlessly. Von Karma let out a roar of anger.

At that moment, the door to the outside banged open, and Gregory, distracted, turned to look at the doorway. He saw the silhouettes of two people, but he never got the chance to go closer and see who they were, as Peter took advantage of his momentary lapse in concentration to wrestle the stun gun out of his grip.

"Freeze! Police!" The shout came from the doorway, only moments before Gregory saw the stun gun in Peter's hands. How had that happened? He did his best to grab at the weapon; Peter looked extremely dangerous now with a stun gun in one hand and a real one in the other. He managed to grab Peter's wrist, but the force of his motion caused Peter's fingers to slip, the stun gun dangerously close to Gregory's chest now.

The last thing Gregory thought was _the police are here; I tried my best, von Karma_ before several thousand volts of electricity entered his body and he thought no more.

* * *

"…Miss Fey?" The voice sounded so far away to Mia's ears, but it also sounded so awfully familiar. Her eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes to find her lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. What on Earth had happened?

_Uncle Peter pointing the gun at Franziska, no time left, one last chance…_ When she had came into the room after ringing the police, she had seen Uncle Peter pointing the gun at Franziska, who was still channelling the same spirit she had been earlier—the spirit of Gregory Edgeworth.

Mia had nothing else to rely on but the fact that as a more trained spirit medium, with the blood of the main family running through her veins, she would be able to wrest control of the man away from the young German girl. It seemed that it had been successful. This sent a flood of relief shooting through her body – in the end, she'd been able to save Franziska, although it didn't even start to make up for all the crimes she had committed.

"…Mia?" Heels clacked against the floor, and a moment later, Mia saw a face she hadn't expected to see again for a long time.

"…_Lana?_" she asked incredulously. They'd parted their separate ways after they had graduated law school last year; their…_friendship_, for lack of a better word, had been wonderful while it lasted, but they had resigned themselves to the fact that they would only be seeing each other on the opposite sides of the courtroom from that moment onwards.

They both had too much to lose from the implications of any sort of closer personal relationship.

Lana's lipped thinned, her hands clasped in front of her. "That's Detective Skye to you." Despite the direct nature of her statement, Mia could still see the twinkle in Lana's eye. Her old friend was just the way she remembered her.

"Lana, Lana, Lana," a man's voice repeated despairingly, "you should have told me that Miss Fey had awoken." The man walked up behind Lana and clapped her on the back, causing her entire body to shake despite her attempts to stabilise herself. It was then that Mia noticed the man's blindingly vivid orange ensemble – who _was_ this guy?

He knelt down beside her, and for a prolonged moment, did nothing but stare at her over the top of his glasses. Mia stirred uncomfortably, wondering if she was going to get any sort of introduction. After all, Lana seemed to know who he was.

"The ambulance will be coming soon, Lana," the man said, turning his attention to the other woman momentarily. "Freddo will have to be taken to hospital before the blood loss gets any worse. When we get back to the precinct tonight, I'll have to contact the prosecutor's office and postpone the trial he's conducting tomorrow – can't assign anyone else to it; Freddo would throw a fit. Should be able to pull some strings; some of the prosecutors owe me a favour or two," he said, tugging at his forelock of hair as he did so.

Mia had no idea who Freddo was, but came to the conclusion that this man standing in front of her had quite a lot of power in the city's law enforcement – or at least, he seemed to think he did.

Lana smiled, tugging her scarf around her neck as she did so. For some reason, this simple action made Mia's heart swell – after all this time, Lana was still wearing the scarf? Mia supposed she still wore hers too. "_Prosecutor von Karma_ should recover from his injuries in time, shouldn't he?"

"Should be well enough to run a trial when I get a postponement," the man affirmed. "They say the injuries to his legs might disable his movement though – a shame, the man was always a ripper in the swimming pool."

_Manfred von Karma…Freddo?_ Mia thought to herself. What kind of person could get away with _that_ kind of nickname?

The man looked at Mia again, and then after a brief pause, got to his feet and said, "How rude of me to not introduce myself. I'm Damon Gant, one of the leading detectives down at the precinct. Lana here is my partner in crime." He laughed, clapping his hands together.

Lana rolled her eyes. "Partner in _solving_ crime," she corrected.

"Aren't they one and the same?" Detective Gant asked.

Lana turned her head to the side so only Mia could see, and mouthed the word 'No'.

Mia smiled too then, despite everything that had happened. It _was_ good to see her old friend again, although the circumstances could have been better. Speaking of circumstances…what had happened? She had no knowledge of what had occurred after she had channelled Edgeworth's spirit away from Franziska, although it seemed that everything must be better now that the police were here.

However, she could not deny her curiousity. "When did you get here?" she asked the two detectives, as she did her best to push herself into an upright sitting position. She seemed to be in the Side Room, seated on one of the manor's spare beds.

"Just in time," Lana answered. "At first, we were worried you might have died as a result of the taser attack – when we ran inside, your body was slumped on the floor. However…" Lana trailed off, and shared a quick glance with Detective Gant, who was still standing beside her. "…this obviously did not happen." She bit her lip then, mulling over something silently for a moment. "…Your father was taken into custody. He's being charged with assault, kidnapping and attempted murder."

Mia barely listened to the charges, however. _Her father._ Her father had died thirteen years ago, in a farming accident. She should know—she had seen his dead body, trapped underneath the tractor. Some nights, she still dreamt about it. Her _biological_ father was long gone; Mother had told her so herself. "You mean my uncle," she told Lana, staring up into her face.

The detectives shared another quick glance. "Yes, your uncle, Peter Fey," Detective Gant replied.

So Uncle Peter had been taken into custody. Mia hoped that now, he would never be able to hurt Maya again. Even if they couldn't prove anything in regards to Maya, as Mia was uncertain as there was any evidence for _those_ crimes, the other sentences would be enough to keep him away for a long time…

…even if one of those sentences was meant to be hers. Guilt came crashing back in a uncontrollable wave of emotion, and Mia could not stop herself from flinching. Lana and Detective Gant looked at her, concern in their expressions. "Tell me…" Mia said, doing her best to keep the tremor out of her voice, "…is everyone all right?"

"Well," Detective Gant said slowly, gloved fingers twiddling with his forelock again, "I suppose it depends on what 'all right' is." He smiled then, clapping his hands together. "No-one died, and everyone is being taken care of now."

Mia was lucky; there was no other way to describe it. If anyone had died, she knew she would never be able to forgive herself. In fact, she still didn't think she could forgive herself. If this experience had taught her anything, it was that she was never doing anything like this again. She didn't need to rely on Aunt Morgan, or participate in her schemes. She would find all the information that she so desperately wanted on her own, for her own sake—and for Maya's as well.

She felt her eyelids droop—it had to be very late at night by now, if not early in the morning. If everything was as well as it could be, maybe she was allowed to sleep now. The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes was Lana's smiling face.


	21. Awakening

**Chasing Demons**

**Chapter Twenty One: Awakening  
**  
Franziska woke up in a strange room, her clothing ripped and dried blood on her hands. To say everything hurt would be an understatement. She had spent a great deal of time reading about crime scenes to prepare herself for her career—but she had never suspected she would become the victim of a crime herself.

Papa…where was he? He hadn't been hurt, had he? If something had happened to him…he would have been right all along. She should never have come to America. The criminals here were worse than the ones in Germany! Why had they done this to her? Were they jealous of Papa's successes? She did not understand. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and they threatened to fall. She was alone now, surely she would not be breaking the rules if no-one saw. But somehow, she could not bring herself to do it. Crying would be admitting defeat. That someone had bested her in this situation.

There was a rustle behind her and she whirled around, looking for the source. Perhaps she had not been as alone as she had previously thought. An unfamiliar woman with long brown hair, a green jacket and a red scarf was with her, a pitying and almost _patronizing_ smile on her face.

"You're Franziska, aren't you?" the woman asked, walking over to the mat that Franziska was sitting on.

Franziska stalled for a moment; good things never seemed to happen anymore when someone asked that question. But she'd already been kidnapped once—maybe this woman was coming to save her. Her hands tensed against the floor. She did _not_ need saving. In the end, she allowed herself nothing more than a curt nod.

"I'm Lana. Detective Lana Skye."

A detective. Franziska tilted her head to the side, contemplating the woman standing before her. What had Papa said about detectives again? That they tried their best, which was not well enough? The woman must be kind, then, Franziska decided, but somewhat useless. She would have to find out exactly how useless though. "What happened? Where is Papa?" Her voice sounded shakier than she would have liked. She was conscious now. She was meant to be in control.

The woman exhaled a gentle sigh. "He's been injured, Franziska. The ambulance is taking him to hospital as we speak."

Franziska's heart thumped loudly in her chest. _Was Papa going to…_ Maybe Detective Skye heard, as her eyes softened. "He'll be all right after he undergoes surgery."

_Surgery_. Papa had been hurt, and even when the doctors healed him, he would not be entirely the same again. There were always repercussions when someone visited hospital—that was what her sister had always told her. Papa shouldn't have come all the way here. She was fine now, wasn't she? Sore, tired, but _alive_. But Papa had been injured; who would _do_ something like that? A kidnapper, most likely. Franziska's hands shook. "Who did it?" she demanded angrily, jumping to her feet despite the way her muscles ached and complained. "Who hurt my father?"

Detective Skye hesitated. It was almost as though the woman thought that the whole ordeal was too _sensitive_ for she, Franziska, to handle. She wasn't a little girl—she was a prosecutor! In the courtroom, she would not let herself be fazed by even the most gruesome of murders. "A man named Peter," Detective Skye finally answered.

The name did not mean anything to Franziska, unfortunately, as she would have loved a mental image of him, to imagine hurting him the way he had hurt Papa. "So it wasn't…_Misty_…then?" Franziska clarified. Although she had her suspicions the name was false, the woman who had kidnapped her had definitely been too well endowed to be a man.

"…_Misty_?" Detective Skye replied, her voice surprised. "She hasn't been around in years."

Her kidnapper was a coward, Franziska decided. She had used a false name belonging to a deceased person to avoid facing her crimes. Papa would be able to prosecute her to the full extent of the law, wouldn't he? But…what happened if even Papa didn't know who she was? What happened if the police thought that this 'Peter' man had kidnapped her too? If the police had arrested him…then he would be the one on trial! The one who would be convicted! It was _wrong_, but it was _justice_. The police always arrested the _real_ criminals, right? That was why prosecutors could never fail—failure would mean criminals walking free! Maybe 'Misty' had been blackmailed. That could explain it, and for now, Franziska could let it rest. 'Peter' had hurt her Papa, and he _would_ pay for his crimes.

Her subdued silence aroused lingering concern from Detective Skye. "How are you feeling, Franziska?" she asked tentatively, bringing a hand to Franziska's shoulder.

Franziska backed away; she would not let anyone near her again. Not until she knew how to protect herself. This woman might have meant well, but that gave her no right to touch her. "I'm fine," she snapped, raising her arms as she did so. "Look, do you see any injuries?"

Detective Skye bit her lip. "I don't mean just physically, Franziska. You've been through a traumatizing experience, and your family is very worried about you."

She hadn't wanted her father to worry about her. He shouldn't have come all the way here just to try and save her; he was getting older now and wasn't as strong as he once was although he would never admit _that_. The police had come and done their job, hadn't they? They'd arrested the criminal. In all honesty, Franziska thought that Papa should have just stayed in the courtroom. If anything, Miles should have been the one to come here, but Miles Edgeworth wasn't her brother anymore. Miles Edgeworth didn't _care_; he was a stranger in her brother's clothes. "Papa should know better than to worry about me," Franziska answered haughtily, hands tightening into fists.

Concern sparked across Detective Skye's face and she shook her head. Franziska glared at her, and Detective Skye's glance hardened. "Look, Franziska, it's not only your father who's worried about you—"

"Then," Franziska interrupted coldly, "what other family do I have?" If Detective Skye mentioned Miles…then he _deserved_ to be worried. He'd stayed at home like a coward while she had run out of the house. He hadn't wanted her around anymore and had only bothered talking to her because her father had insisted on it.

"Your sister," Detective Skye answered promptly. She didn't try to lay another hand on Franziska's shoulder, but it still felt as if the woman was trying to diffuse the situation.

"My _sister_?!" Franziska asked in astonishment. That answer had certainly caught her off guard. How would her sister, Lisbeth, know what had happened to her? They still kept in touch, and Lisbeth _had_ previously wanted to take her to the beach this summer, but Franziska wouldn't consider Lisbeth a close friend—not in the way that she had considered Miles to be a long time ago, back before he had left her to go to America.

"Elisabeth Paffenholz?" Detective Skye answered, tripping over some of the letters in Franziska's sister's surname in uncertainty.

Franziska nodded, choosing not to correct the detective's pronunciation for now. "My elder sister, yes, but…what is she doing here?" The few times that Franziska _did_ talk to her sister, Lisbeth had never went out of the way to disguise her distaste of America: the country, the culture, the food…she had hated it all the one time she had visited and had vowed never to return again. What on Earth could have possibly changed that?

"Your brother rang her; he didn't know what else to do, I suppose. Of course," Detective Skye said, raising a brow, "he should have rung the police first, but I do not know why he decided not to do so."

Miles and Lisbeth knew each other? That was a surprise – Lisbeth had left home to study medicine before Franziska's birth, well before Miles Edgeworth had joined their family. She hadn't known that they had ever met, but Franziska supposed that maybe Miles just had Lisbeth's number down as an emergency contact – this most certainly was an emergency, by some definition of the word – Papa had been _shot_. "Where is she?" Franziska demanded, stubbornly staring up at Detective Skye. From what Franziska knew of her, her sister was like Papa in a way – she would always know what needed to be done.

"She's waiting for you in the precinct back in the city," Detective Skye told her, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. "The police…we're going to have to ask you some questions, Franziska."

Papa had taught her what went on during detective's investigations of crimes, but still, Franziska could not help but feel some trepidation. She would never have expected to be interviewed herself.

Maybe Papa was right. She should never have come to America. Then none of this would have ever happened. She felt the prickling at the corner of her eyes again, and she looked up at Detective Skye, her eyes red and watering. Too ashamed to hold her head up high anymore, Franziska then looked back at the ground, watching as her tears dropped down onto the dusty floorboards. When she opened her mouth to speak again, there was a certain rasping quality to her voice which she absolutely hated. She was Franziska von Karma. She wasn't meant to _cry_. "Are we going now?" she asked, trying to take control of the situation again, to make sure she always knew what was happening.

Detective Skye must have seen the tears, but Franziska was grateful that the woman didn't comment on them. "Only if you're ready," Detective Skye told Franziska. "Detective Gant will finish up proceedings here for tonight."

So, there was another detective here. That made Franziska feel somewhat better, that there was two of them on the case; there would be a better chance of apprehending the criminal. But they'd already arrested Peter – what would happen to 'Misty'? Franziska bit her lip. She supposed that was what Detective Skye would want to question her about. Franziska looked at her hands again, at the dried blood caked under her fingernails – momentarily, she wondered where her gloves had gone. "I'm ready," she said quietly, the flow of tears stopping. Her hands balled up into fists, and when she looked up at Detective Skye this time, she felt determined instead of useless. Franziska _was_ ready, or as ready as she would ever be.

Detective Skye led Franziska through the manor, and for the most part, Franziska just followed, although she liked to think that she wasn't following the detective, but rather walking alongside the older woman. They had just exited the manor and walked into the chilly night-time air when Detective Skye stopped. Franziska kept walking, unaware that the woman was no longer keeping up pace. "Franziska," Detective Skye called out, and it was only then that Franziska realised she had left the detective several meters behind, and Franziska turned around, the direction of the wind causing her hair, as short as it was now, to billow in front of her face.

Instead of walking back towards Detective Skye, she stayed put. "Yes?" Franziska answered, ensuring that her voice was loud enough to be heard over the howl of the wind.

Detective Skye was the one that bridged the gap between them, but she was careful not to come too close to violating Franziska's personal space again. Franziska noted that the expression of pity was on Detective Skye's face again, and Franziska really didn't think she was going to like what Detective Skye had to say next.

Franziska was right. "Everything's going to be all right, Franziska," Detective Skye assured her, and the empty platitudes made Franziska's blood boil. They were so many things _wrong_ with Detective Skye's assurance: Franziska had been kidnapped by an unknown woman for a reason she could not decipher; Papa had been _shot_ by a likely madman; her little brother had grown into a man she hardly recognised; Lisbeth would be infuriated about being called away from Germany, and Franziska felt like she didn't know herself anymore.

There seemed to be so many secrets over here in this strange country. What had 'Misty' meant when she had told Franziska that she was being brought home? Germany was where her heart was – in Germany, she was Franziska von Karma. She knew how to be everything she needed to be.

Thankful for the cover of the dark, Franziska turned her head away from Detective Skye, looking down at what she assumed was the path that led away from the village, and back to the lights and skyscrapers of Los Angeles. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Detective," Franziska said coldly. She couldn't trust anyone now, especially not a perfect stranger.

Detective Skye said nothing, but the silence was thoughtful. They trudged over the muddy ground towards the police car, and for a moment, Franziska debated the safety of getting into the car with someone she didn't know. But there was no-one else she could trust here – Papa was being taken to hospital, and Lisbeth was at the precinct – and Detective Skye was the only one who hadn't tried to kill her yet. If it took her away from this place, wherever she was, then Franziska could only be grateful.

Franziska wasn't sure if she was supposed to sit in the front or the back, but Detective Skye opened the passenger's door for Franziska, and scowling, Franziska claimed her own grip on the door's handle – she was perfectly capable of opening doors on her own – and sat down heavily in the seat, strapping herself in with the seatbelt almost immediately.

She was grateful that the blood on her hands was dry now, as she didn't want to stain the police car red. It was a foolish thought, however, as Franziska realised that a police car would have probably ended up covered with blood, vomit and other putrid muck that was much more disgusting than the filth she was currently bringing in.

Detective Skye sat down behind the steering wheel, and placed the key in the ignition. "Ready?" the detective asked again.

Franziska gripped the seatbelt where it crossed over her chest. "I'm ready," she repeated, her voice stronger now. Her voice carried loudly in the car, and she wondered if she'd spoken too loudly, considering that they were no longer competing with the wind. Detective Skye seemed reassured however, and soon the car was travelling down the path, away from the events of last night, away from the mysteries Franziska was frustrated that she was unable to solve. Maybe Detective Skye was right. Maybe once Franziska was back home, safe and clean in Germany, everything would be all right again. She'd focus on her career, so that the sort of criminals like the ones she had met over the course of the last twenty four hours could never get away with her crimes. She'd become Germany's – no, the _world's_ - best prosecuting attorney. She'd show her father exactly what she was capable of. She'd show Papa that in the future, she wouldn't need to be saved.


End file.
